


RockNRolla Baker Street

by MyBlueBooks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Criminal!JohnLock, M/M, Organized Crime, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 43,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBlueBooks/pseuds/MyBlueBooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet John Watson, aka Johnny-Boy, a high professional thief hired by the consulting accountant and financial manager Sherlock Holmes to steal a high sum of money from his client, the Irish business oligarch James Moriarty. AU CRIMINAL!JOHNLOCK</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What We Are

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU based on RockNRolla, but also contains scenes of TRF. Neither Sherlock (BBC) nor the respective characters belong to me.

Meet John Watson, also known as "Johnny Boy". A high professional thief hired by the consulting accountant and financial manager Sherlock Holmes to steal a high sum of money from his client: the Irish business-oligarch Jim Moriarty.

But let's start from the beginning, I'll tell you what happened.

From the start.

It has been clear since the moment John came back from the war. London had changed not only from the outside, but also on the inside. The drug business was declining. The streets weren't the same. Corruption was still invading every alley and every corner of one of the most cosmopolitan cities of the world. The gang had been losing their hopes and now they had become rusty.

After serving as a medical assistant in Afghanistan for five years as a sentence for a stupid and rubbish bank assault, a damn shot on his left shoulder, John was back in town ready to bring back to his gang the action they needed to feel alive again. John Watson, mostly known as "Johnny Boy", was the charismatic leader of one of the most famous gangs in London: the "Wild Bunch". They formed a group of thieves, drug dealers and people, who had something against the world and its rules. For example, Harriet Watson, better known as "Harry", was John's right hand and sister. After being dumped by all the girlfriends she'd had, she dedicated herself to be her brother's assistant. Harry Watson was in charge of the plans, procedures and the materials used in every assault or, as they called them, "jobs". She also had a close and deep relationship with beer and with any other alcoholic drink; the main reason of her failed romantic relationships.

Then there was DI Greg Lestrade, the second man of the gang who started working with them after meeting John in College. A corrupt Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard, capable of warning the team about drug busts or simply informing them that the force was behind their steps. With Greg's help the gang was capable enough to avoid the police and even prevent not only themselves but all their acquaintances from being arrested.

And finally, the freshmen and latest additions, Andy A. Anderson and Sally Donovan. They were a couple of drug dealers rescued from jail by the corrupt DI Lestrade because, apparently, they had disabled the biggest drug mafia in London and then they occupied the new empty place with their seven percent stronger solution. Johnny Boy thought they were useless and stupid, but after joining the group their budget has been raised thanks for their contributions with the drug business.

So the Wild Bunch was one of the most powerful gangs in London. With John Watson as leader, Harry as his right hand, DI Lestrade as John's best mate and Andy A. Anderson and Sally Donovan as freshmen, the Wild Bunch was the group of the most wanted criminals of the city.

And that's why Sherlock Holmes, James Moriarty's consulting accountant and financial manager, required their services.

Because ever since the Irish magnate and business oligarch James Moriarty had put a foot on London, he had known what to do. Not for nothing he was millionaire. The British city was growing... up. The money was on the buildings. The money wasn't on shops, or bank investments, no. The money was on the buildings. And London had too much green space.

"London, my dear Seb... is fast becoming the financial and cultural capital of the world. London is on the rise. Property value has gone one way: up. And this has left the natives struggling to keep a foothold in the property ladder. I can teach you how to skin a cat and... In fact I did but now I can tell you a lot about the money in bricks and mortar. Like I said, it's going one way."

His Irish accent was enough to make anyone near him turn and blink. Twice. And his faithful and close assistant Sebastian Moran was the one in charge of making these people disappear. Because Seb was there to hand him a tissue but also to deal with those who needed more than a word. Sometimes, they needed to be skinned and turned into shoes. And that was his job. That's why for James Moriarty, his right hand man was his dear Seb.

And every rich and powerful man who owns enough money to save all the countries on bankruptcy needs an accountant, and James Moriarty had the best professional accountant and financial manager. Sherlock Holmes.

"Dear Seb, call Sherlock Holmes. Tell him I need to see him."

...

Now meet the very gifted and the financially creative Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Accountant and Financial Manager. The only one in the world, because he invented the job. The man had the brains to have a PhD from Cambridge, Oxford or any other posh and prestigious university on the world, but somehow he ended up being the clever and mastermind professional behind every financial and economical business plan for those who invested their fortunes on London. But that wasn't his only gift. Because Sherlock Holmes was clever enough to deduce and read facts normal people take for granted. Things that normal people don't see because they don't observe. For Sherlock Holmes, consulting accountant, there was always something more than meets the eye.

"Now, come on, give your beloved wife Irene a smile, Mister Holmes."

"I don't feel like smiling. I'm a 30-year-old consulting accountant married to a homosexual lawyer. I'm a beard without kids, Irene."

"Kids weren't a subject on our contract."

"Because I didn't and I don't want them."

"For a marriage of convenience, this can be quite inconvenient."

Sherlock Holmes was married to the most important, famous and powerful lawyer in the whole Commonwealth, Irene Adler. Not only recognised for being the PM and the Royals lawyer but also for her beauty, her attitude and the way she was able to make the whole country go down to its knees just with a move of his slender fingers. And all the press and the entire world agreed they were perfect for each other. Both intelligent, clever, professionals. Both had that same soft, dark hair and those bright eyes, full pink lips, perfect and long bodies.

Outdoors, they were the perfect couple. Indoors, they were just two people living together just to accomplish and follow a contract. It was a fake marriage. He was a man who sometimes needed his sex drive to be filled by his assistant, the shy, clumsy and blonde Molly Hooper. And Irene Adler was a lesbian who's been having a long relationship with her bisexual assistant, the ginger and boring Sarah Sawyer, the very same who sometimes tries to make her way under Holmes's duvet and why not, between his long legs.

They shared a posh house in a rich part of the city where promiscuity was as common as a pint of beer in a pub. The two of them, the famous Adler-Holmes couple had all the power on their hands. But Mister Holmes wanted more. Because he was bored. And James Moriarty was a good man to play a little game with.

Holmes was deeply lost in his thoughts when his phone beeped inside his pocket. The car ride with his assistant who was looked as bored as him, his fake wife and her assistant and lover was tedious and boring and his deductions about the sexual positions they had performed last night on the kitchen were already being deleted from his mind.

"Molly, my phone."

The blonde woman in front of him nodded with a blush on her cheeks. She let her right hand travel shyly over Sherlock's long coat. When she realised it wasn't on his coat, her hands went a bit further into his suit. His breast pocket was empty.

"Try on my trousers, Molly."

The assistant nodded, not daring to raise her head and face his employer. She let her right hand travel inside Holmes's pocket and she found the ringing BlackBerry.

"Molly Hooper speaking... Sir, is for you," the blonde assistant said clumsily when Mrs. Adler-Holmes talked to her.

"Who is it, love?"

"Mr. James Moriarty, madam."

"Are you sure he isn't gay? I'd love to have him on a leash."

Sherlock exchanged a few words with his client before finishing the phone call and placed the mobile back in his pocket.

"It looks like I have a new case. Molly, call Watson and arrange a meeting tomorrow"

"What time-?"

"Seven, 221B Baker Street. And may I ask, since when do you desire a man on your bed, Irene?"

The brunette smiled and kissed his husband's cheek, leaving traces of her new red "blood" lipstick.

"Since last night when I heard you touching yourself. You know you can always ask for a hand"

That phone call was the beginning. Because what the Irishman didn't know was that his accountant has got bored of the safe life.

And he was looking for excitement in all the wrong places.


	2. What You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, in which John and Sherlock met and seven million are on the way.

  
  
Welcome to Speedy's. This hot little house of crime is home to a particularly nefarious group of individuals known locally as the Wild Bunch. A family cafe, if you ask. A rat's nest, if you come inside. Mrs Hudson, the owner of the place was a sweet old lady, but somehow the gang managed to keep her from their business. For her, they were a group of friends. For anyone else, they were the criminal soul of London.  
  
"There's no way you're gonna get a five, understand, Harry? - They've got nothing on you"  
  
"What are you talking about? Johnny Boy, they've got an informer. They are going to fucking arrest me to never let me go! Got a rat with a roach smoking a canary. Got more information than the fucking Internet"  
  
"All right, ladies" DI Lestrade arrived on his own car wearing black glasses. He was on duty, but Harry's situation was important. "Hey, Johnny Boy, can I have a word?"  
  
But in the world of crime, there's always coincidence. And the very man Sherlock needs to fuel his thrills and why not, his sexual drive, is the very man that also owes him a favour. John Watson.  
  
"Greg, come here mate. Remember that bloke, the posh pup? The one that likes a bit of the rough life?"  
  
"The freak with the long coat and the cheekbones? You haven't heard from him in a little while"  
  
"Well, he offered us a job. A proper job"  
  
"You said you were going to turn down his jobs" John Watson nodded before continuing. "I was, but considering Harry's situation we will need the money to pay the bond if they sentence her and some more to bribe the judge - He's coming this afternoon"  
  
"Here? At 221 B? Isn't it a bit dangerous?"  
  
"His assistant said it was urgent"  
  
"That blonde woman with the good ass?"  
  
The corrupt cop took off his dark glasses and winked at his best mate. Molly Hooper had been Sherlock Holmes assistant for a very long time, and according to Sally and Andy A. Anderson she was the consulting accountant's little pet. They even saw her sneaking her hands inside his employer's coat or trousers to pick up his phone calls and sometimes, they commented also on the strange sounds and movements the car did when he was high after he had consumed their cocaine seven percent stronger. The chauffeur would wait outside because Molly was the only one allowed to stay inside with the drugged man.  
  
"Yep. Don't get too excited, I bet Anderson is right and he shags her in the back of his car"  
  
"Shame. Feel sorry for her, though"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Look at that freak Johnny, doesn't seen to have any flesh under those expensive suits"  
  
"He looks nice to me"  
  
"You like him?"  
  
Johnny-Boy rolled his blue eyes and took another sip of his second tea of the morning. The corrupt DI nodded and both men started planning what they were going to do with their shares.  
  
But let me tell you the story of these two men, the professional thief head of the Wild Bunch and the consulting accountant.  
  
John Watson met Sherlock Holmes a couple of years ago during a drug exchange. When Andy A. Anderson and Sally Donovan joined the gang, their most important client was the consulting accountant. And after using his deductive gift, Sally was told to stay away from Anderson after Holmes pointed out the state of her knees and also the fact Anderson wasn't going to divorce his wife to marry her. Not caring about Holmes' power the couple denied him their cocaine and he blackmailed them with some files he assured them his wife, the powerful lawyer Irene Adler, had on her possession. No more cocaine, and the whole gang could go to prison. So Johnny Boy had to make the deal with the tall and dark haired man, and since he got clean (that's what he heard), they never met again.  
  
"Nice Bison skull, though I'm afraid is the one missing from the British Museum. The headphones give it a nice... touch"  
  
And the thief was standing next to Sherlock Holmes in his living room on 221B Baker Street, just above Speedy's cafe. The consulting accountant was looking at the cow skull hung on his wall with some interest. His grey eyes scanned the whole place, and he was surprised. To be a good thief, manager of the top gang in London, the man had good taste.  
  
"Is that what they call art where you come from? I just needed something to hang on my wall"  
  
"Your limp is back, Mister Watson. The sister is facing another court case? Pity, I'd ask my wife for help but she's too busy now shagging that assistant of her. Talking about women how's that black woman and her knees? Did the rat-faced man divorce his wife? Why am I asking, he didn't and her knees are still bruised. I can see you look at them every time you see her. You should keep an eye on your Wild Bunch, Mister Watson. Sentiment is always on the losing side"  
  
"I thought we were going to discuss a job, neither about my sister nor how I manage my gang. And you can call me John"  
  
"I've got some work, thought you might be interested, _John_."  
  
The consulting accountant made a special sound when he pronounced the thief's name, and the blonde man couldn't help but smirk.  
  
"Go on"  
  
"There are two of my accountants taking out 7 million euros from a bank I know. And it won't be protected. Twenty percent for me. I'll text you the details"  
  
"Twenty percent? I thought it was going to be seven percent, as always"  
  
" _I am clean_. Oh and you could give them a black eye. It might help. Just a black eye, nothing more. They are two good looking men working for my agency, don't want them too bruised. Bad advertising"  
  
"Very well, Mr. Holmes. A black eye it is, then. Nice shoes, by the way"  
  
Johnny Boy couldn't help but comment towards the consulting accountant sparkling shoes. They looked good on him, making him look like an actor on a red carpet.  
  
"Thank you. You'll be able to afford a pair of your own in a couple of days"  
  
Sherlock Holmes left Baker Street as soon as his assistant parked his black car outside. His long coat moving behind him and his blue scarf tied to his neck, his signature. And now he needed to make some plans. There was a new "job" worth to do.


	3. What We Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Third chapter, in which Johnny Boy does the job and Seb Moran wants to turn Sherlock Holmes into a pair of shoes.

People ask a question. What's a RocknRolla? And I tell them it's not about drums, drugs and hospital drips. Oh, no. There's more there than that, my friend. We all like a bit of the good life. Some like the money, some, the drugs. Others the sex game, the glamour or the fame. But a RocknRolla, oh, he's different. Why? Because a real RocknRolla wants the fucking lot.

And my dear, 221B of Baker Street hides too many secrets. And some of them deserve to be told. But I'll give you just one. And we will see in the future.

John Watson's fascination towards his new business associate Sherlock Holmes had gotten to a new level. It took him only five minutes and a big bag of cocaine over a table between them to feel sexually attracted to the tall man with grey eyes and sharp cheekbones. He was sitting in a black armchair the thief had stolen from a good shop, and the good and submissive Molly Hopper was standing next to him, wearing a black tight pencil skirt and a lacy white shirt. Her high heels made her exposed legs look even longer than how they really were. Lestrade was sitting next to him and he was devouring the blonde assistant with his dark eyes, and that was what John knew he should do as well.

But our dear Johnny-Boy, head of the top gang in London, was devouring Sherlock Holmes. His blue eyes fixed on those grey eyes, the high and sharp cheekbones and those cupid bow lips. His pink lips. His eyes even travelled down, where the consultant accountant was resting his pale and long hands, over his lap. And somehow, the thief could never erase those hands from his memory. And now those hands were the main character in his sexual fantasies.

"Here you have your seven percent, plus half a kilogram. Consider it a courtesy of the house."

The posh pup, as John liked to call him, nodded. Never looking away from John's blue eyes, he let his left hand move towards his assistant long legs and she blushed. His long fingers moved up and down on her knee and then near her inner thigh. It looked like a code between Holmes and Hooper because she took the drugs in her hands, and with ease and practice she prepared a line with one gold credit card and her employer sniffed it in front of everyone. And like Andy A. Anderson and Sally had said, John knew he was tasting it. It was OK if Holmes distrusted John, after all it was the first time they met. But Johnny-Boy knew it was the best cocaine in the whole country.

Holmes stood up and whispered something to his assistant's ear, and with a nod both left the flat.

But it isn't my place to talk about past things. I just gave you a little glimpse of one of the little secrets the Wild Bunch hides. Because now the real Rocknrolla is getting ready to attack.

"Got the details, Johnny?" Harry asked, ready to plan the next job.

"Peter Smith and Thomas Russell, two accountants working for the "SH Business and Financial Management" firm, have a scheduled meeting with the English Bank's Manager Sebastian Wilkes at 9 a.m. sharp. They will park the car at the back of the building in the Southwest Alley. Each one of them will carry a bag. Idiots."

Harry rolled her green eyes and started writing on her notebook and a couple of minutes later the gang had a plan.

"I'll phone Greg and tell him to take some of those Met's clothes. Anderson and you, Johnny, will dress up as cops, and you'll arrive there at 8 a.m. sharp in the morning to let the big heads see you when they park the car. Those twats will park their car at the back of the bank where there aren't any security or CCTV cameras. Idiots. That only benefits us, because then there won't be any fucking evidence against you two"

"Anderson, you are the driver."

John stated and the rat-faced man nodded and took another sip of his beer.

"This is another freak's job?"

"Yes, Anderson. Problem?" Harry asked, fixing her penetrating green eyes on the man.

"Yeah, if it wasn't for the good money, I wouldn't know if I'd do it."

"Well, if you don't like it you don't need to do it. Say it, but you won't have your share. Harry can drive," John interjected, a bit angrily.

"And why don't you include Sally?"

"Think it through, clever boy! This job requires two men to punch the posh pups and run with the money, you dickhead."

"Shut up-" Andy A. Anderson tried to shut her, but the head of the gang was already between the two of then.

"All right, ladies. It's enough. Harry, go on with the plan," John cut off.

"Lestrade will be in touch during the whole job to prevent us from any police chase around. I'll be the woman on the inside while you steal the money. Sally will wait for you here and keep an eye on Baker Street. I already talked to Mrs. Hudson downstairs and don't worry, she will be having a knit time with Mrs. Turner next door. Everything should work this way. Don't fuck it up," Harry warned them, as always. And as always, her plans were the best. Nothing could turn out wrong when it was about Harry's plans. She was the brain in the gang, and all of them respected her for that.

 

...

 

 

When Smith and Russell left the bank they met the same two policemen they had seen when they arrived, but this time it was different.

"Open the car and leave the bags, please," Johnny Boy kindly asked.

"Sorry?"

"Now, now, boys, do as you're told. Put the bags in the car, walk away and keep smiling and yes, it is a robbery. Now fuck off."

And then the head of the Wild Bunch and the freshman drove back to the other side of the city before changing their clothes back to normal and head back to Baker Street in a cab. With seven million euro in their hands. Harry accomplished her role as the inside woman, making sure no one could witness the minor robbery. Sally waited for them and they arrived free of any one chasing them.

"Gonna count it, John?" Asked Harry while the she and gang were already splitting the big mountain of money when Johnny-Boy received a text.

**_Come at once if convenient._ ** **_SH_ **

The thief knew those initials, but he wasn't completely sure. Not for nothing he was the leader of a top gang and besides, it was a risky job.

**_Did your pups cry when they told you they'd lost seven millions from two police officers? JW_ **

**_No, but my client is very angry. If inconvenient come anyway. SH_ **

**_Who's your client? Where do you want me to go? JW_ **

**_Angelo's, Northumberland Street at seven._ ** **_Don't be late. SH_ **

 

_..._

 

**_  
_ **

The dark-haired man placed his mobile back in his pocket and sighed. He took his leather gloves, getting ready, when he saw his employer looking blankly at his Smartphone.

His consulting accountant had texted him to tell him what happened with the money he was using to invest on nice building on a top spot in the city. Smith and Russell had been robbed outside the bank. Seven million euro lost.

"Do you need me, Sir?"

"Seb, dear Seb. No, I don't need you. Send Sherlock a bouquet of flowers. Red roses, please. Oh, and I want my lucky paiting. _'The Falls'_. I need it."

His right hand man nodded. But the truth is that he hated the consulting accountant and he made that clear to his employer. He knew Sherlock Holmes was a dangerous man. No matter how hard he tried to search on him, he always found the same information. The spies he had set on him gave him the same pictures and videos. And James Moriarty told him he liked this Holmes man, but Sebastian Moran knew he was hiding something.

And he held the hopes that someday he would skin Sherlock Holmes and then turn him into shoes.


	4. What We Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourth chapter in which John hides something and Sherlock knows it.

The Wild Bunch had increased their personal fortunes and those Euros had a strong Irish perfume. Even Johnny Boy could sense the strange air when the gang opened the bags full of money. And being the good man he was, he filled the Louis Vuitton bag with Mr. Holmes's twenty percent of the money.

"I told you not to be late, John."

When John Watson arrived at the Italian restaurant at Northumberland Street, he met his new business partner sitting in a prime spot in front of the window. The place surprised John. It was modest, not cheap, but it wasn't posh either. Just cosy and it was strangely deserted. But the consulting accountant wasn't alone. Besides him was the pretty and shy assistant Molly Hooper. He was whispering something into her ear when John arrived and she left the place before the thief could say "good night".

"I wasn't sure if this was the place, it doesn't look like the restaurant Sherlock Holmes would frequent." John spoke coolly, and sat in front of Sherlock, with his back to the window.

"Be clever. Why would I meet you in a top and private restaurant where most of my acquaintances and colleagues can see us?" Said Sherlock Holmes while the thief just smiled at him.

"Touché."

The blonde thief moved the expensive and also heavy bag to Holmes's feet, and the dark haired man smiled.

"It's a little bit heavier than it looks on a calculator, isn't it? You posh people like this stuff, don't you?" John asked playfully.

"Didn't expect less of you, John. I see you didn't think much of the black eye."

"I would like to have obliged."

"But from a professional point of view, just didn't seem natural."

If it were the Olympics of Flirting, both men could have won all the Gold Medals, because John was determinate to get something more than a shake of hands from Sherlock Holmes. He didn't care if the man was married. And the consulting accountant had a proposal to make.

"My wife is giving a party this Friday. Most of the high British society will be attending." Sherlock Holmes said, while quickly typing on his BlackBerry, hardly looking at the screen. His grey eyes were fixated on the window behind Watson.

"Do you want me to attend?" That's all Johnny Boy could say. Because he understood that, somehow, Holmes was inviting him.

"Irene took my skull. And I can't walk around people with my skull," Sherlock, the invincible and talented consulting accountant, replied.

"A skull? So I'm simply filling in for your skull?"

"Bring your friends with you. Make it look casual. I'll have more job offers for you." This time, the beautiful assistant Molly appeared and handed her employer his long dark coat, which he took with a quiet "thank you".

"I said I was going to turn down your jobs, Mister Holmes," John said, also standing up, ready to leave.

"You won't turn down any of my offers, John."

John laughed sarcastically. "Or what? Oh, does your powerful wife Irene Adler have another file? Photographs of us? Are you going to send us to prison using your wife's power? I thought you were an independent man, Holmes. But here I see poor Molly handing your coat, taking your mobile from your trousers and allowing you to touch her whenever you want and wherever you want. I won't accept your jobs."

Sherlock Holmes laughed. He laughed and it echoed on the deserted restaurant. His assistant looked surprised at John and this only told him he must have been the first man talking at the consulting accountant like that.

"You, a man who had assisted on the medical camps of Afghanistan to accomplish a five-years sentence after a stupid Bank assault, had come back in London only to find out your sister's drinking problems had gotten worst, and the gang you had led had become rusty, unemployed and almost living with stupid and useless jobs. John Watson, don't bring Irene Adler to our conversations if you want to continue stealing Bison skulls from the British museum. I'm offering you millions of Euros-"

"So what? You keep doing that thing, that trick. But in the end, you are the one who hides behind his wife's skirts." John replied calmly but he knew he had touched a nerve. Because the taller man with the grey eyes and the sharp and high cheekbones stepped forwards until they faces were merely inches away.

"It's not a trick. I observe things that people like you, _idiots_ , don't, because you merely see. I use my brain unlike many others. Do you want to know, Mister Watson, what I'm observing now? Shall I say it? You're an honest man, a good man. You hate this life and what it does to your sister and your friends. You don't want to live on the dark side any more."

"Is that all?" asked Johnny Boy, trying to walk backwards only to meet the window behind him.

"Oh, there's more. There is something you hide behind that mask of the macho, of the straight and virile man. Meet me next Friday and bring your Wild Bunch with you."

The dark haired man left the place and behind him ran his assistant on high heels. And John Watson knew he was fucked up.

 

...

 

 

"You promised it, mate! You know we don't like that posh pup."

The next day, the head of the Wild Bunch was sitting with Lestrade and Harry inside Speedy's. It was hard to enjoy a warm cuppa when the main subject was Sherlock Holmes, and your mate and your right hand and also sister are against you.

"I know. But he can help us, Greg. His wife is very powerful and I bet on my life she can get us the files we need to stop Harry's court case. And we need to find out who the fucking informer is."

Harry sighed deeply and loudly. It was something John hated and she knew it. "I don't like that bloke either, Johnny. But if he has some information I'll plan a good job. I'll fucking prepare it all myself if you need it. I'm facing a five. A five fucking years thanks for that fucking informer. Tell that posh pup we will do it."  
With the corrupt DI of Scotland Yard's and Harry's approvals John decided he was going to work for Sherlock Holmes one more time.

"Are you gonna tell Sally and Anderson?" asked Greg, getting ready to go back to the Yard.

"I don't give a fuck about them. This is my gang after all and if they want to belong to us, they will do what I say."

"Getting bossy, aren't we?" From out of the blue, Molly Hooper appeared on the cafe, making an extremely loud noise with her high and expensive heels on the white and clean floor of Speedy's. Lestrade took off his dark glasses as soon as he saw her. Harry's green eyes scanned the feminine figure in front of their table thoroughly and looked down to her tight dark dress. Her blonde hair was up on a tight and perfect pony tail and the subtle make-up was perfect for her.

"Morning. I'm here for Mr. Holmes, he couldn't make it. He sends you this, Mr. Watson." Despite the fact Molly sounded confident her face didn't match her words. She was blushing and her ears were as red as her cheeks.

"Holmes sent me this?" Finally, after seconds that lasted like hours to Molly, John asked her when he received the blue package. She nodded and her phone rang as soon as her hands were free.

"I'm sorry, he needs me now. He also said you can find his address inside the package. Good bye, Mister Watson." Greg, the womanizer of the gang, followed her outside and helped her to get into her dark car and closed the door.

John opened the package and soon his blue eyes met a blue-stripped jumper with an envelope.

_**'666 Belgravia Street. 10 p.m.  
Wear ** _ _**this.** _   
_**SH'** _

"Harry... I think we have a party to attend and a new job to do."


	5. What You Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifth chapter in which James Moriarty flirts with Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes had a date with his employer and client James Moriarty once in a while, whenever the Irish man wanted. You can imagine two men sitting around a desk, drinking strong coffee or whiskey, reading books and talking about money business or financial plans. But the millionaire didn't like boring offices, cheap coffees nor boring books and numbers. And that's why this time, the oligarch invited his consulting accountant and financial manager over to his posh boat, to have dinner and share a few drinks on the lovely Thames River.

"They say there are only two days you enjoy a boat. The day you buy it and the day you sell it." The taller man was wearing his purple shirt and a black Spencer Hart's suit with narrow-leg trousers and a two-button, slim-cut jacket. His long coat had been discarded long time ago. Those dark and soft curls were neatly combed from the left to the right side of his head. Sherlock Holmes could feel and even see how the Irish was devouring him with his dark eyes. And it was disgusting. His grey eyes travelled over the man sitting opposite him, and he saw traces of cream on his forehead, product in his hair and red eyes.

"Gay."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock removed the cigarette he was smoking from his lips using his left hand and smiled.

"I said, yes. According to my figures, you are completely right."

James Moriarty, or Jim as he insisted Sherlock Holmes to call him, also smiled, showing his perfect teeth, and nodded at his consulting accountant. Not letting his gaze leave the taller man, the Irish took off his Vivienne Westwood jacket and looked at Moran, his faithful assistant who was sitting meters away from them on the other end of the table.

"Can I pour you a glass?"

"No, thank you."

The truth is that the brilliant accountant was counting the minutes to get off the boat and go back to his place. James Moriarty's presence was disgusting and the simple fact he wanted to get in his pants was making him feel sick. He hated that man. And if he could, he would kill him. Yeah, that was a good plan, wasn't it?

"You know, I like you. I like the way you are. Always thinking about business, very professional."

"Well, that's what you pay me to be, isn't it?"

"Tell me about your wife."

Holmes's tactics had worked. His wide and shinning gold ring on his left hand had been specially polished for that meeting. He smoked with his left hand all the time, making suggestive movements with his lips. He was seducing the Irish because he had a plan. He was bored, so now Moriarty was going to play a little game for him.

"My wife is a lawyer."

"I hear she's very good at what she does. Maybe we can have some work for her."

The consulting accountant twisted his pink lips with a slightly message of annoyance and drank the last of his red wine. Obviously the Irish had seen this.

"Tell me, what do you do for fun? Have I offended you in some way?" asked Moriarty, and the British man frowned just a bit. His tactics worked. Again.

"As you said, I'm a professional, you're my employer. So as long as it stays that way, why would I be offended?"

"You see, Seb?" Moriarty asked looking at his assistant. "This is what I am talking about. This is what I like about this country. They understand hierarchy. You do your job, I do mine, and everyone gets along," he sing-songed with his annoying tone of voice.

"Now, back to business. We have had security problems. And to cut a long story short... I need another 7 million Euros lost in the books."

Holmes lit another cigarette and inhaled it, making another suggestive movements with his lips and his long and pale hands. He even undid two buttons from his purple shirt and smiled to his employer. "Mr. Moriarty, I'm the best at what I do. I could certainly cover some of that money. But even I can't hide 7 million from the tax man."

"But if you are so good..."

"Let me think about it. There are some options I've tried to leave open."

The truth was that Mister Sherlock Holmes was able to do whatever he wanted with the laws of his country. He had good acquaintances in the very same governments because his brother was the British Government. Do you believe the Prime Minister sits on his desk and reads and approves laws and taxes? Do you really think he writes his own speeches? Do you think he signs with his very hand every damn paper? You're so wrong. Because Mycroft Holmes read and approved all the laws you know, he wrote every speech you heard from the PM's mouth and he signed every paper using the PM's hand.

The Holmes brothers had all the power of Britain in their hands. And James Moriarty wanted that power as well. The Irish oligarch wanted to expand his spider web, he wanted to be a King. Sherlock knew it, because he could see it. And he wasn't going to let this man grow. And there comes John Watson and his Wild Bunch.

"I'll have to send two different accountants this time. Smith and Russell are a bit... traumatized after the rob."

Moriarty snapped his short fingers and Sebastian appeared behind him. He looked at Holmes with a look full of hatred and distrust. And the consulting accountant saw that. He wasn't stupid and he had to make a mental note to get rid of him as well. He was as faithful as Molly was, he knew that man was capable of skinning a cat alive if the Irish wanted him to. And why not, if he could skin a cat, he could skin him too.

"Here, my faithful assistant Sebastian will send two acquaintances of mine to look for the money. I think it will be for the best, you know, send two 'heavies' instead of two good looking accountants. No disrespect, I'm sure they must be a delight to my eyes, but I don't want to be robbed again nor I want your workers to be hurt."

Sherlock Holmes smiled, getting himself ready to leave.

"Oh. Quite convenient."

As soon as he was back on land, Molly was already waiting for him inside his car. She was wearing a new dress, a new pair of shoes and even a new lipstick. That's what Sherlock liked. He liked to play with his poor Molly, his assistant, but he knew she liked it as well. Molly Hooper knew everything about him, every inch of his body, every one of his curls, all his jobs, his clients. She even knew how to manage his brother and his phone calls, and John and his Wild Bunch. Every single thing Sherlock had, Molly knew it by heart. If Sherlock wanted to get high, she was ready to prepare him a line. If Sherlock wanted or needed his sex drive to be filled, she was ready for him. If Sherlock wanted to quit smoking she knew how to keep him away from cigarettes.

Molly was his.

"New lipstick, Molly?"

Even after years and years working for the man, Molly Hooper was the same shy girl. And that made her more special and valuable for her employer.

"You can talk, Molly."

"Yes, sir."

"What shade it is? Is dark here, I can't appreciate it. Let me taste it."

He kissed her slowly, licking her lipstick from her lips and caressing her waist with his long and cold hands. This wasn't new. Molly was used to this and despite the fact she knew his employer would never have feelings for her, she liked to feel she was something her employer needed. And this was true. Sherlock Holmes, consulting accountant and financial manager needed Molly like everyone who needs air. She was an essential part in his professional life. And why not, personal too.

"Pink. Your mouth looks good now."

"Okay..."

 

...

 

 

When he arrived at his place, he was greeted by his wife's assistant walking around the house wearing nothing but his own blue morning gown. Sherlock looked at her from head to toes, observing and reading all the things he needed to know about her. Sarah Sawyer was to Irene what Molly was to him and what Sebastian Moran was to James Moriarty. Assistants were always needed and valuable in their employers' lives.

But Sarah wasn't only Irene Adler's assistant. She was her lover, her girlfriend, her partner for years now. And she was the one who suggested the marriage between them. For the convenience of all, Sherlock and Irene. Though Sherlock knew it was also convenient for the very same Miss Sawyer.

"Didn't Molly come with you?" she asked at him seductively, loosening the blue gown, showing him her naked body. And that was something the consulting accountant was used to. Miss Sawyer was the bisexual lady of the house, the one who promoted the promiscuity on the Adler-Holmes' mansion and the very same one who loved to sneak into his room to sleep under his duvet and why not under his body as well.

"Gave her the night off. Is Irene out? Of course she is, look at you. Sleepless walking around the house, bored? I see she has another little party with some judges and you weren't invited"

She nodded and walked with him to his room. "Your bed is very tempting, Mister Holmes. How was the Irish? I bet he couldn't keep his hands off your belt."

The consulting accountant laughed sarcastically and undressed himself in front of her, not caring about it. Being part of a fake marriage, having a lesbian wife and Sarah always trying to sleep with him was something not new for him. Being naked around her was something common.

"Oh, we aren't talking tonight? Let me do the talking for you, then. Always rejecting me, always rejecting Irene and me. Do you know how many men would kill to have what you have, Sherlock? And yet you chose to touch yourself."

She said, touching his flat stomach and kissing his nipples. Sherlock Holmes stepped backwards, falling on his big bed and closing his eyes with a gasp.  
"I'm married to my work, Miss Sawyer. So are you, always being Irene's assistant while you know you're more. You chose to be the force behind her. We made choices. We can't regret now, can we?"

She went down and the consulting accountant closed his eyes as soon as he felt Sarah's thin lips taking his hard member, forgetting the person on her knees was Sarah Sawyer. Because he imagined it was the blonde and blue eyed John Watson.


	6. What We Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixth chapter in which John goes to Sherlock's party and the Consulting Accountant gives him a head.

It was Friday night, and the Wild Bunch was getting ready to rock. Lestrade managed to get himself a night off the work and his wife, and join his friend and the gang to the Adler-Holmes party. There weren't any danger connections for him, so the corrupt and womaniser DI of the New Scotland Yard was decided and determinated to go to the famous party, enjoy himself and maybe make a move on Molly Hooper.  
Andy. A Anderson also managed to escape from the wife and there he was, in the back of the Wild Bunch's car with Sally over his lap and kissing like two horny teenagers.

"Hey, keep it in your pants will you!" Harry also joined them, of course. She agreed with John when he told her to dress smartly and well. There were going to be lots of important people and they needed to make new connections. As Harry was the brain in the gang, she was the one in charge of the selection of new and potential clients. And finally, our dear Johnny-Boy completed the gang. He had put some effort on his clothes, though he tried to deny it when Harry, his right hand woman, and Lestrade, his best mate, pointed out his choice of clothes and his new blue striped jumper, gift of Sherlock Holmes.

"Whoa, look at this place. Never knew the freak had good taste," said Sally as soon as they got out of the car. They were facing a big house, a mansion more likely, with white walls and the black number 666 beside the door.

"Harry, make the contacts. You Anderson and Sally, sell your seven-percent-stronger. I have a small matter to take care of. What will you do, Greg?" commented John while assigning every member of the gang a job to do at the party.

"That Hooper woman will be on her knees for me."

As soon as they rang the bell, they were greeted by a red-haired woman wearing a tight, short black dress and high heels. She looked at all of them from head to toes, but she only smiled at John.

"Who are you?" asked Sarah, seductively sipping her champagne.

"My name's John," replied the thief, mimicking the same tone of voice of the assistant.

"Oh, you must be with Sherlock," she said, smiling even wider, showing her perfect teeth and her red-painted lips.

"No, we're the SWAT team, sweetie," Harry cut off, obviously exasperated to get in, drink, make acquaintances and, why not, get a bit of action.

"Well, you better get swatting then. Come in, help yourselves to drinks." Soon she disappeared among the crowd of people inside the house. The team disappeared as well, and John found himself alone, admiring a smiley face on the wall. It was painted with yellow aerosol and if he wasn't wrong, it has gunshots around it.

"I have to admit I was bored when I did this. Irene almost killed me when she saw the state of her precious wall." Sherlock Holmes appeared behind Watson, with a cigarette in his left hand. He was dressed impeccable as always, with a dark, tailored suit and a tight purple shirt which had three buttons undone. John swallowed hard at the sight of his pale skin.

"Good night, Mr. Holmes. Nice party by the way," the head of the top gang in London replied coolly, sipping from his beer.

"I see your Wild Bunch are enjoying themselves," Sherlock said, glaring at the rest of the gang. Sally and Anderson were talking to some of Irene's political acquaintances while Harry and Greg were nowhere to be seen.

"Indeed. Haven't been to a party like this in ages, with naked waitresses and women touching themselves in front of everyone, getting high… Well done, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please. I'll tell my wife. She's the brain behind this party. This is certainly not my area of expertise."

John frowned. He could see how much the consulting detective disliked the people around them, and how he made a strange gesture with his nose when he mentioned the famous wife. It had been the same when he told Holmes he was hiding behind the skirts of Irene Adler.

"So, she's your beard."

" _I_ am her beard. A marriage of convenience. This is quite convenient for both parties, you see."

They started walking between the different scenarios the party had to offer. The living room contained a special show of female and male strippers offering white lines over their naked bodies to the guests and the kitchen had two bodies, a woman and a man completely naked with only sushi covering their private places. People around them were smoking, dancing and kissing each other.

"You like men?" asked the blonde man from out of the blue. He certainly hadn't thought the words over until they escaped his mouth. But Holmes looked at him, pleased as if it was the question he had been expecting for so long. So John didn't know what to do or what to say when the younger man gestured him to enter an empty and dark room with only two armchairs.

"Thanks for bring this topic of conversation, John. Tell me, do you want me?"

John looked at those grey eyes and his sharp cheekbones. His full and pink lips hypnotised him. They invited Johnny-Boy to a world of ecstasy, desire, lust. All his sexual frustrations had a solution and that solution was on the consulting accountant's lips. His slender and thin frame was tempting him and all of this was doing good and delicious things to his lower part.

'Waiting for a train' by Flash and The Pan was filling every room of the big house. John frowned and opened his mouth instinctively to say something but he couldn't articulate a word.

 

...

 

 

"I'm Irene. It's my party."

Harry was sitting on a large, red velvet sofa, drinking beer and champagne and smoking some weed as well, when the powerful and beautiful Irene Adler sat next to her. The lawyer was only wearing a sheer green lace peignoir. It was transparent, and behind that posh and soft fabric Harry could see those perfect and modest breasts. She was also wearing a pair of Christian Louboutin's high heels. Her red lips twisted into a smile, and she batted her long eyelashes while she spoke.

"Oh, the famous Mrs. Holmes, I presume? Nice party," replied Harry, coolly while she smoked the last of her joint. The brunette and powerful woman smiled more, and her green eyes travelled from head to toes over Harry's frame. She liked her.

"So you're part of the Wild Bunch? Sherlock says you're dangerous."

"I am dangerous, yes. And I _am_ the Wild Bunch," replied Harry. She liked this Adler woman. Her pale skin was radiating the desire and lust; the same the party was offering. But the powerful woman smiled.

"Oh. I like you. My dear husband was right after all."

"Your posh little pup was right? Right about what?" The truth was that Harry had never spoke to Sherlock Holmes. That wasn't her job and she wasn't interested either. To her, the consulting accountant was just the 'posh pup' and nothing more. She was glad they were doing business with him, it certainly increased their personal accounts, but she never held any hopes to meet him nor his wife, the famous lawyer Irene Adler.

Maybe she could make an exception.

"I know all about your type," Mrs. Holmes stated.

"Oh, yeah? How's that, then?" Harry Watson tried to sound cool as if Irene's words were nothing to her. But the real thing was that Adler had something the Wild Bunch was interested in.

"I'm a criminal lawyer. I know a secret about your part of town."

"And what might that be, ?."

Irene moved her green lace peignoir, showing more and more of the pale skin of her chest. "Miss Adler, please. But I'm Irene for you, sweetie. You have an informer breathing down your neck. If I'm not wrong, you're the one facing a five? Uh, that's quite a lot. Such a waste I'd say. A pretty woman like you in jail, that's not good."

"What's his name?" Harry threw her weed cigarette to the floor and crushed it with her shoe. She was now interested and she was showing it.

"You have to pay for secrets, sweetie."

"Now, now, that's not very nice, is it? What's your price? And remember, I _am_ dangerous," Harry Watson warned her with her index finger in the air. But Irene just smiled and told her what she wanted.

"I want to meet the Wild Bunch," the posh and beautiful woman admitted before taking Harry's lips with her owns.

 

...

 

 

"I beg your pardon?"

Holmes stepped forwards this time and now their faces were merely inches away. The thief could taste the warm and sweet breath from the consulting accountant when Molly Hooper appeared at the scene.

"Molly, thanks for joining us. Did you bring what I asked?"

The blonde and shy assistant nodded with a furious blush on her cheeks. And Johnny Boy understood her when he saw the way she was dressed. Molly Hooper was only wearing her underwear: black bra with matching panties and black tights. Her long blonde hair was swept back high and tight in a pony tail. Holmes gestured Watson to sit in the armchair opposite him in the deserted room while he sat down too. With a cold look, Molly sat on his lap and he touched her left breast, pulling out his Smartphone from her bra.

John felt uncomfortable. It was a very disgusting thing to look at. And it wasn't disgusting because of Molly, she was a very pretty and hot woman and if things were different, he would have been like a horny teenager after her long legs and her round breasts. But the disgusting element was Holmes. He didn't like that attitude. He hated seeing a man taking advantage of a woman and that was exactly what the consulting accountant was doing to poor and faithful Molly.

"Same job as before, John. Same place, same money," Holmes said, looking at the blue-eyed man with his piercing grey orbs. His left hand was now on his assistant inner tights and Johnny-Boy knew for sure he was doing it on purpose. He knew that Holmes knew how much he disliked that.

"Blue looks good on you, John."

The head of the top gang in London looked down at his new blue stripped jumper, the very same one the consulting accountant had sent it to him. He was right. Blue was his favourite colour and it fitted him perfectly.

"Thank you. How did you know my size?"

"Oh, I know all about numbers. I work with numbers, don't I?" Holmes answered with a smile. Now he managed to put one of Molly's arms around his neck and he undid her bra.

"This one isn't done by my accountants. Two heavies are doing the job. You might want to take all your gang with you."

"Thanks for the advice. I'd better be going."

When John got up to leave, Molly did the same and Holmes gave her another look. "Oh, I had another present for you. Molly, leave us alone please."

The assistant nodded and made her way out of the room, closing the door behind her bare back.

 

...

 

 

"You want to meet... me?" Harry asked incredulously. And she was surprised because the posh woman had all the power and money to have all the beautiful women of Britain if she wanted. But she wanted her.

Harry Watson wasn't proud of herself. Her drinking problems were getting worse and she couldn't keep a woman at her side for too long. She even felt she couldn't be attractive any more. But there was Irene Adler, kissing her, touching her and telling her that she wanted her.

"More like on a personal level... But I don't want to talk about work-"

"If you tell me who this informer is, then we can talk about anything you want. If he's an informer, you'll have his depositions and poems," Harry cut off, interested not only in the sex and the joy Irene had to offer but also in the information she had.

"My, my, not just a pretty face. How'd you know about those sort of things?"

"Give me your mobile."

"My phone? You should be crazy my dear. My phone is my life and I'd die before I let you touch it."

"You heard me. Do as you're told."

Irene was surprised when the Brains of the Wild Bunch asked for her phone, but even more when Harry took it from her hand with ease and added her mobile number in her contact list.

"Oh. That's nice. Here, we'll go for a drink next week, and I'll tell you all about it. All I need is some paperwork."

Harry Watson gave Irene Adler a last kiss and left the room.

 

...

 

 

"I wanted to give you a little present before you leave-"

"Mister Holmes-"

"Sherlock. And sit down, John."

As soon as Molly closed the door, the consulting accountant stood up from his armchair and moved towards the thief, who was also getting ready to leave, but Sherlock stopped him and John fell down in the armchair again. The blonde man sighed tiredly, but his blue eyes shot wide open when Holmes knelt down and placed both of his long and pale hands on his belt.

"What are you doing?" the thief panted when he felt Holmes's long and cold fingers inside his pants. The dark haired man didn't say anything as he kept his position over the floor with his body between John's short legs. His right hand was caressing his already hard member while his left hand was touching his inner thighs.

"I'm merely doing what you want me to. I've been observing you, John."

They were in complete silence, though the only audible sounds came from outside the room, people moaning and getting high, dancing, all behind that door. And inside, John was in heaven. Sherlock Holmes was doing such very nice things to him. He could feel Sherlock's pinka nd soft lips around his swollen and hard member, he was sucking him off and he was doing it greatly. John was so close to exploding in ecstasy when Sherlock suddenly stopped.

"Monday 9 a.m. Do the job, and I might finish what we started today."

When the thief opened his eyes, Holmes had left the room. And there he was, sitting in an armchair, with a hard-on and a very much missed orgasm.


	7. What We Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny fakes a limp and Sherly knows it.

You see that thin man sitting at the opposite side of the table? All Johnny Boy needed to know about life was retained within the four walls of the Italian restaurant. He noticed that one of his personalities was seduced by the illusions of grandeur. A great but mysterious man, all packed in a thin and pale six-foot-tall body. An attractive implication towards glamour and wealth. A subtle suggestion that that man and what comes with him was his and only his. And that, my dear friends, was a lie. John's Watson's other personality tried to draw his attention to the flip side of the discussion. Written in boring, bold black and white, was the statement that that man, the famous consulting accountant and financial manager Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, trying to kill him. And that, my dear friends, was the truth. Oh, that posh tall man, with dark curls, white skin, grey eyes and sharp cheekbones was a beautiful call to death and our dear thief, John Watson, best known as Johnny Boy, was addicted to the sweet and delightful look of this man. It was a fucking game that had started sweet and had ended bitter. And it also had started bitter and had ended sweet.

Because Johnny Watson, head of the top gang in London, wanted Sherlock Holmes. He wanted the consulting accountant's body, his lips, his skin, and he wanted to feel those long and pale hands on his body as well.

And my dears, you'll have to wait and see. Because I can't tell you what happened. I can't tell you the end.

You'll have to follow the acts.

And see.

That's what John saw when he came in the now-familiar Italian restaurant. This time it was filled with people, but also this time, Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the usual table, alone. The thief knew his bruised eye and his limp were perfect to make the consulting accountant talk more than the few words they always exchanged. And he held hopes the posh pup, as he liked to call him, would notice him.

"Bruised eye, fake limp. No Luis Vuitton this time. Are you all right?" asked the detective, not looking at the blonde man limping in front of him.

"That is a rhetorical question, I hope. I'll have a water, please, thank you," answered Watson when he sat down in front of the taller man and one young man approached him to ask for his order. Then he placed the bag beside Holmes's legs and sighed tiredly.

"So you don't wanna know what happened?" asked Johnny Boy as soon as he realised Holmes wasn't going to say a word. Somehow, the thief needed to be asked, to be inquired by his new business associate. He hated those silent moments between them. He wanted to know what the accountant liked, how he liked it and if he could be the one to give it to him.

"I know what happened."

 

 

...

 

 

 

_The Wild Bunch got a dark,very large and heavy truck to do the job. And Harry's plans were simple but perfect. The gang was ready. There wasn't any room for mistakes, so during the weekend after the party and before the new seven million Euros, the whole gang studied the procedure._

_Harry Watson, John's right hand, managed to conceive a plan as simply as the alphabet but also complicated just in case something happened. And thank God for her brain, because there was a big mistake._

_Johnny Boy's sister was the driver, and in a truck, she was supposed to crash and tear the car with the Heavies apart and leave them unconscious. The two men in the gang, Anderson and John, would run to the crashed car and take the money. Sally was escorting Harry, also being the one in touch with Greg Lestrade. The corrupt DI of the New Scotland Yard was the one in charge of the CCTV cameras and he was informing the gang about the police movements around them._

_And if they followed the plan, everything would turn out beautifully. No one was going to end up hurt, or killed._

_But they had ignored the Heavies._

_So they had to make a small change of plans, in the middle of the gunfire._

 

 

_..._

 

 

_  
_

"I see you ordered already," said the blonde thief when the waitress placed a cup of tea in front of the consulting accountant. Soon, the dark-haired man put a cigarette into his mouth while with his right hand he took a lighter form his pocket. He sucked the white and firm body of the cigarette and exhaled a big cloud of smoke seductively, causing nice things to John's lower part. Watson's blue eyes followed the cigarette till it was out the young man's mouth and it made him crazy.

"You were late. I told you not to, and shouldn't you have taken precautions?" he asked John easily and carelessly. He never made eye contact with the thief until he felt his chest rise and his pulse quickened.

"Precautions? Did you see that? What happened? God."

Johnny Boy sighed and shook his head, breaking that little eye contact they were sharing.

"Well, it's your job, isn't it? I know what happened because I saw it. I was at the Bank. I supervised the Heavies when they filled the bags with the money. And I saw the car crash, the sister is a very good driver, isn't she? I think you should get rid of that rat faced man Anderson, though."

Sherlock Holmes looked into those blue eyes. John's pupils were dilated. His bruised eye looked good and he also liked that limp. Even if it was faked.

My dear friends, the truth is that Sherlock Holmes saw all the action from one of the Bank's window, while Molly was on her knees in front of him.

 

 

...

 

 

 

_Harry stepped on the accelerator and turned the wheel to the left side, making the end of the truck crash against the car with the Irish heavies inside. John and Anderson got down the truck and ran to the broken down car with iron scissors. They were right, because the heavies had the bags with the money chained to their wrists._

_"Cut the chains!" shouted Johnny while he took both bags with his hands. They had to climb onto the broken-down car to get the bags filled with money when the heavies, far from being knocked out, tried to hit the head of the gang._

_"I can't do it!" Anderson and his clumsy hands gave one of the heavies, the biggest, enough time to get off the crashed car. They had lucky when the rat faced member of the Wild Bunch cut off the chains and both men ran to a car Harry had settled the day before in case they needed a faster transportation. Lestrade was on the phone with Sally and giving them the proper directions they needed to scape from the police officers around the are of the Bank._

_"Change of plans! Plan B! Plan B! Police officers on the A route had been warned!" shouted Greg from his office in the Yard, while his dark eyes were scanning the CCTV cameras. Thanks to destiny, the corrupt DI worked on the criminal and murder division. He wouldn't be involved unless someone got hurt, or worst, killed._

_When John and Andy. A. Anderson got inside the car, Harry was ready to drive off the scene before things could get worst when the smallest of the two Irish heavies jumped over the car. "Get us off these bloody bastards!" shouted John when Harry lost control over the car and they smashed against a shop._

_It was time to make a little show-off. And the Wild Bunch showed their power._

_The whole gang had to change plans again._

_"Abandon the group and run! Plan C and change your routes!" shouted Harry as soon as the hit one of the Heavies who had been punching her brother. But things got even worst when one of them appeared with a machine gun John had only seen in Afghanistan._

_"Fuck off!" yelled Anderson to the crown of people outside the crashed shop when they tried to change routes and escape with the money. Nothing of this was going as planned and the Wild Bunch had to improvise, something most of them hated but it was vital to get out of this hell alive and have a nice share of the money. So the planner of the jobs ran with one bag to the south while John carried the other bag filled with money to the opposite route. It was one of two; the Heavies could go and chase either of them or they could chase both. And Harry had more chances since the biggest one of the Irish was behind her, and she quickly lost him on the way._

_The one who had troubles was Johnny Boy. The slim and thin Irish Heavy was behind his steps and it was hard to take the designed route when you know you're running just a feet away from someone who can kill you with his own bare hands._

_The blonde thief ran and ran through the streets till he got himself inside a little neighborhood with an old tunnel. His short legs were hurting and he had to play his last card. Because his life was on stakes._

_Watson hit the Heavy with a big piece of wood and escaped before she could see the Irish hit man was still conscious._

_"Need a lift?"_

_"Took your time to pick me up," said the blonde man as soon as he saw his sister parking a stolen car. She winked at him, showing her bruised cheek and her bleeding nose. They were tired. Their plans had failed, but they were alive. Very alive, in fact, and well enough to enjoy their shares and laugh at the Heavies' faces._

 

 

_..._

 

 

_  
_

"I didn't realise," said Holmes, clearly not worried about the dangerous situation the Watson's and their gang had to go through. After all the mess and the failed plan, Lestrade was called to investigate the case of the missing seven million Euros after the car crash on the shop killed a man. Anderson and Sally had managed to escape and stay safe. But the ones who really sweated were Harry and John.

"Realise? You didn't realise that they had guns? Big, long, dangerous machine guns with war criminals attached to the trigger? You know what, darling? I'm just gonna leave this laundry bag here under the table for you, okay? Fucking hell."

John was fucked up. He knew he was fucked up. The money was good, it had always been good. But the pain in his eye or in his leg was nothing compared to Holmes's coldness. He wasn't waiting for consoling words or a pat on his shoulder. But the consulting accountant saw everything. And there he was, enjoying a chocolate dessert he might throw up later, and looking at people and deducing things about them.

"Watch your words, John," warned Sherlock Holmes with a cold glare at the thief who stood up from his chair, getting ready to leave.

"Goodbye, Mister Holmes. You're way too dangerous for me."

That was the last words spoken between these two men. Johnny Boy left the restaurant in silence. Lestrade was waiting for him outside in his car.

"Did I overdo it with the limp?"

"No, the limp was good. He's a wild one. He likes you, Johnny."

"Piss off, Greg. Where's Harry?" asked John with a pinch of worry on his voice.

"Had a meeting with the lawyer, you know, the freak's wife. It looks like she got her the files."

"And now we're gonna know who the fucking informer is."

The real Rocknrolla knows when his songs are the new hit. He also knows when he needs to be alive and when he needs to be dead. He knows how to speak and where he can walk. He knows who he can trust. And the real Rocknrolla knows who betrays him. He has no fears. He is flawless. Because he knows what he is, what he does, what he wants and what he rocks.

Because the real Rocknrolla _rocks_ the world.


	8. What We Steal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits Johnny Boy.

The previous night, Harry hadn't drunk. She hadn't downed a glass of wine or a bottle of beer. A long time ago, one of her previous partners had told her about the importance of having a good night's sleep before an important event, occasion or meeting. It improved your attitude and cleaned your skin. And dear Harriet Watson was meeting Irene Adler. An unspoken agreement, and Johnny Boy's right hand was standing outside the Adler-Holmes posh house. Dressed smartly for the occasion, Harry rang the bell and Sarah Sawyer opened the door.

"I already thought you would come. Irene is waiting for you in her office. Follow me."

The woman was only wearing a blue gown and Harry had her own suspicions that she wore nothing on under that flimsy piece of fabric. She had that familiar smell Harry knew. The very same smell that lingered around John after his meetings with Holmes. Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes.

They walked around the house and the member of the Wild Bunch couldn't help but glance at the pictures and paintings hanging on the white and endless walls of the house. The paintings looked quite artistic and expensive. Harry knew when a painting was worth thousands and thousands or why not, millions of pounds. And the pictures were an image of a family. Of a couple that did not exist: Holmes and Adler smiling together in several important-looking events, looking like a happy couple, smiling and touching themselves. Everything was so fake. Nothing was real. And just a bunch of people knew about it, and the very same few people that knew celebrated and accepted them like the statement that the sky is blue.

When they arrived at the office upstairs, there was Adler sitting behind the massive mahogany desk. Her long and dark hair was up on a perfect hairdo.

"Welcome, Miss Watson."

She smiled with her red lips while her assistant and girlfriend closed the door behind them.

"A two-thousand-pounds Jacques Azagury. Impressive," said Harry, never breaking the eye contact while she nodded at the dress Irene wore.

"Do you like it? Present from my husband. Please sit down, or if you want some tea I can call the maid." The lawyer gestured her to sit in front of her while she sat on the other side of her desk. A black folder lay on the desk, Harriet Watson's name written on it.

"Maid? Isn't it a bit dangerous to have a maid when the life that people think you have within these walls is as fake as any politician's promise?" The flirting game had started.

"You think so? Well, it's not dangerous when the maid is deaf and mute. I like to call it self-defense in advance. But you didn't come to me to talk about my housekeeping, did you?" asked the powerful lawyer as she opened the folder with her manicured hands.

"No, I didn't. I came here for my paperwork. I'm facing a five and I need to know who the fucking informer is." Harry leaned back in the chair, her arms draped over the arm rests and she crossed her legs. She had to contain herself from ripping the file from Adler's manicured hands.

Irene Adler smiled and clasped her hands over the desk after she took another folder from the drawer and placed it beside Harry's file.

"I had to call my brother-in-law to get these files. I'm a criminal lawyer and your case was on my division. But the content of them wasn't."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry with a deep frown. Sarah smiled from her place behind Watson when she heard her girlfriend talking.

"I mean, Miss Watson, that someone hadn't been only betraying _you_. This informer whoever is, had told the judges all about the Wild Bunch. Now we know all about the gang. About the corrupt DI of the New Scotland Yard, the drug dealers Andy A. Anderson and Sally Donovan, the ex-soldier John Watson and his sister Harriet Watson. We know where do you live, we know all about your jurisdictions in London. We know everything," said Adler while she tipped on her mobile phone without looking at the screen. Her green eyes were fixated on Harry's blue ones. The member of the gang was as confused as much as she was angry. They were noticed by the eye of the law, they were discovered. They had been betrayed.

"Mycroft will contact John. This is getting out of your hands and we certainly will help only are your heads are on the stakes but ours are as well, you see."

"You have nothing at stake. You're a lawyer, you have dinner with the fucking Royals. You don't have anything to do with this," Harry replied coldly. She had always thought they were perfect, immune. They had Greg, and having a DI was enough to win all the matches. They had a special card up their sleeves and yet they had been betrayed.

"My husband is involved as well and, because we're still married, if he's prosecuted I'll be too. It's not that easy. We made our names, our fortunes and our reputation together." Irene looked back at one picture of Sherlock behind her above a large bookshelf.

"I love that man. He's what you call _class_. If you had any brains, Miss Watson, you'd love him too. Brainy is the new sexy."

 

 

...

 

 

 

When Johnny Boy arrived at Baker Street, he met a man sitting in his armchair. Something about him struck the thief as familiar, but he couldn't deduce what. This man was dressed on a dark suit and his green eyes were fixated on him. A large umbrella was in his hands.

The mysterious man removed a pocket watch from his expensive tailored suit and looked at it with a frown.

"You arrived early."

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"You are Mister John Watson, I presume. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I came here to talk to you about the missing fourteen million Euros from the bank account of James Moriarty," replied the taller man with ease. Now John was able to identify why that man looked so familiar to him.

 

 

...

 

 

 

Irene handed Harry the folder with her name on it. The office was quiet and the only audible sound was the lawyer's long, red nails on her SmartPhone. Harry looked at the papers cautiously, trying to catch the name of the informer. She might after all be able to run after him one day, and kill him with her bare hands. Oh yes, she never lied when she said she was the wild one of the Wild Bunch. She had never killed anyone because that wasn't her policy, but this time she was going to make an exception. The fucking informer deserved to be killed.

"Don't do anything stupid. _Think_. Besides, my dear Mycroft has all the men you need to make that informer disappear from this planet. Remember that not only yours but our heads too are at stake here."

Harry Watson nodded and stood up ready to leave. "How much is this going to cost me?"

Irene bit her lower lip and smiled at her. "Let's say you owe me. I'll think about a proper way of payment and I'll call you. I'm sure you'll like my offers."

Harry smiled and turned around to leave, but she stopped at the door. "Don't include the posh pup, he's not my cup of tea."

She closed the door behind her and made her way outside. Once there,she lit a cigarette and put on her dark glasses. She had a big folder to read and then an important murder to plan.

 

 

...

 

 

 

"Dear Seb, tell me," ordered James Moriarty to his faithful assistant Sebastian Moran as soon as the latter returned from an important business. He was the one in charge of picking up both the lucky painting of the Irish oligarch and the important papers which made it legal to build in the city. Holmes had been the one who got Moriarty in touch with the important Councilors, the very same ones who sign all the permission papers to build in London.

Jimmy Moriarty paid them what they had asked, and he avoided the high taxes on property and all that shit.

"They won't give permission to build -"

"Don't give me that crap. I look out my window, I see 20 buildings this city said they'd never built. How did that happen? The termites got together for a building party, did they? No, sunshine…" The Irish closed his dark eyes and sighed tiredly. He was sitting at the top of the foundations of his own future building. They had the men, the money and the materials. And now the British were denying him the permission to continue with his project.

"Did you bring my painting? Since I left Dublin and 'The Falls', nothing worked as I want it to, Seb."

The assistant gulped before speaking. This wasn't on the plans of anyone. His employer was supposed to be building and investing in Ireland, not in foreign lands or bribing useless and stupid people. But what happened to Jimmy Moriarty's lucky painting was something unexpected.

"The company in charge of the delivery was robbed in their way to London, Sir-"

"Say that again! Say that again and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you," the Irish hissed, his voice dangerously low. He didn't like the bad news about his lucky painting. The assistant looked into his employer's dark eyes and repeated all his words. "The company in charge of the delivery of the painting was robbed in their way to London, Sir. The painting is missing."

James Moriarty closed his eyes and caressed his dear Seb's cheek. "Get your gun, dear. We'll find that painting. I won't leave this country before I have found it and made the thief pay for it."

 

 

...

 

 

 

John looked at the man and sat down. Was he Sherlock Holmes's brother? They shared the same last name, and something about this ginger-haired man reminded him of the consulting accountant. He wasn't scared, because the head of the Wild Bunch wasn't scared of anything or anyone. But this man knew about the _theft_.

"I don't know who James Moriarty is, Mister Holmes," John replied, looking calm while his heart beat out a tango in his chest.

"Call me Mycroft, please. And you should be better informed about the people you are stealing money from. Certainly my little brother forgot to tell you this modest detail. James Moriarty is an Irish business oligarch. He's interested in buildings and properties here in London and you see, when someone has enough money to save most of Europe of bankruptcy, he wants all." The redhead said, examining his umbrella with his green eyes. John was trying to process all the information he was given. And he discovered that all he knew was that Sherlock Holmes was the consulting accountant of the most important personalities of the country and that all the jobs he had given to him had been safe.

"I don't understand what that has to do with me or my gang."

Mycroft Holmes laughed, and Johnny Boy felt stupid. But he remained his confident position.

The tall, umbrella-wielding man explained: "John Watson, you have an informer. A coward little man who sold you and your people only to save his own head. He gave the judges all the information this government needs keep you in jail until the end of your life. _I_ am the British Government and we need to work together."

The head of the top gang in London frowned. "If _you're_ the British Government who wants to put us in jail, why are you offering me your help?"

"Because Sherlock Holmes name has arisen. I can't tolerate to have a member of my family prosecuted," the taller man, owner of a dark and posh umbrella said, standing up from his place and glanced at his pocket watch once again. "I'd better be off. Here, have my card. Call me as soon as you and your sister had read the folder my sister-in-law gave her." And finally Mycroft Holmes left Baker Street. John's mind was blank and lost when he glanced at the note he found on his kitchen. There was something covered with a dark fabric.

 

_'Let myself in._

_Thought your posh_ _pup might like the painting._

_Love, Greg.'_

_  
_

Johnny Boy Watson removed the black fabric, and his blue eyes met a very nice, expensive and beautiful painting. At the bottom it had written _'The Falls'._ The blonde thief smiled when someone rang his bell. He looked at his intercom.

"Hello?"

"It's me," a deep, baritone and velvet voice replied. Outside was Sherlock Holmes, alone, waiting for John to open the door.

"Who's me?" asked the thief, even when he knew who that person was.

" _Me,_ " replied the man. He made a strange sound from the back of his throat, and he almost moaned his answer.

"Ah, Mister Holmes. Well, what do you want?"

" _You_ ," said Holmes, saying the truth. And John Watson couldn't help but smile.

"Oh. Well, you better come in, then."

Upstairs, he heard the door open and then being slammed close, and a pair of feet rushing on the stairs.


	9. What You Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here Johnny Boy finally gets into Sherlock's pants, Mycroft rejects cookies and Irene flirts with him. Moriarty decides it is time to pay them a visit.

The real Rocknrolla never shows his cards. He never plays for nothing. He puts all on the table and he plays for it, because he wants you to lose. He knows how to seduce you, how to make you feel special and he beats you. And when he beats you, he tastes the glory with his tongue. He swallows it and he tells you in your own face how good it tastes. The real Rocknrolla laughs in your face and wins the fucking lot.

Johnny Boy smirked when he saw the posh pup entering 221 B. He was alone. The blonde Molly is waiting outside, the consulting accountant assured him. And now it was time to finally taste those lips, caress those sharp cheekbones and maybe cut himself with them.

The thief was on tiptoe, trying to reach that tasty mouth of Sherlock Holmes. And the taller man took advantage of it, never arching his back to allow John Watson so kiss him better. The dark haired man was teasing him, but he was also being pressed against the nearest wall. He never imagined John Watson could be so strong when his back slammed against the wall and their chests were tightly pressed against each other. They couldn't breathe. But they didn't care. Because they had been waiting for this for so long.

John's hands and short fingers were on those Spencer Hart trousers, touching and feeling with the sensitive skin of his hands that hard, big and swollen member. But the thief knew they weren't on the proper place to do what they were about to do. He wanted to enjoy the moment and he was determined to make that posh pup scream his name and come for him.  
On his own bed.

"Take me to your bed, thief," moaned the consulting accountant. John nodded and continued kissing him and removing his clothes until both men fell on the big and soft mattress, mostly naked.

 

...

Mycroft arrived at 666 Belgravia Street moments later after his visit at the house of the famous thief John Watson. He was greeted by his sister-in-law assistant, Sarah Sawyer.  
"Hello Myc. How's the Queen?"

"Afternoon, Miss Sawyer. You should ask Irene, she's the one who has dinner with Her Royal Highness now and then," replied the member of the British Government, looking at the blue gown the woman was wearing, which was property of his brother.

"Your dear sister-in-law has been a bit quiet lately. Just a bit, she's still being bossy when she wants to be. Made me sleep with your brother last night," she admitted and the elder Holmes nodded. He was so used to this. He knew his brother was anything but a common man. Since he was young he was used to see him and his assistant Molly Hooper together, Sherlock touching her everywhere he wanted when he liked. And when Irene appeared in the Holmes' path, Mycroft thought she was the perfect woman to make his brother put his feet back on Earth.

But he was so wrong.

Irene was the female version of Sherlock. Both wanted the power they couldn't have on their own. So marriage and a contract were enough to make them have all what they wanted. Sherlock never got better, he only got worst. The promiscuity increased at 666 Belgravia Street and despite Mycroft knew they were clean, it worried him. Everything about his brother worried him.

In the only person he knew he could trust even being blindfolded, was Molly. He knew how much Molly loved her employer and that was the main reason she was still there, standing beside Sherlock Holmes after all those years, after all those moments when he wanted her to satisfy his sex drive, only to throw her back to his office when they were finished. He knew that Molly knew. She knew she was important to Sherlock Holmes, but not as much as she wanted to be.

Then, there was Sarah Sawyer. The bisexual assistant, girlfriend and partner of Irene Adler. She was the one who called his brother and asked him for a meeting. A table, Sherlock and Molly, Irene and Sarah and a contract between them. Only one meeting, and months later there they were posing for the press, smiling, kissing each other only to show the world how perfect they were and how powerful they could get.

Behind them, Sarah and Molly. Both of them in love with their employers.

But Mycroft Holmes had to agree that the Adler-Holmes union was good enough for their economical and physical well-being.

"Hello Mycroft, dear. You didn't bring Anthea this time," Irene said as soon as the politician entered her office. She gave him a peck on his cheek and he sat down in front of her.

"No, I didn't. I was chatting with Sarah downstairs. She said you have been quiet these past days. And I see she slept with my brother. Again," commented Mycroft while the maid placed two cups of tea on the desk.

"My, my. But nothing else happens when my dear Sherlock thinks she's a man. No matter how many times I tell Sarah, Sherlock won't see her as the hot and sensual woman she is," replied Irene, sipping her tea. "Have you talked to that thief, John Watson?"

The man nodded and rejected the cookies his sister-in-law offered.

"Yes, and he was as surprised as I imagine his sister was."

The lawyer nodded and smiled at the politician. She sat on top of her desk and placed one of her long legs between Mycroft's. "And our dear Sherlock must be shagging that thief of his. Tell me, Mycroft, are you busy tonight?"

The man nodded and removed her leg from his crotch. "I see my brother is not accomplishing that part of the contract. How was it? Sex at least one time per week?"

Irene laughed sarcastically and took off her high heels. "He's good, isn't he? After all this time together... He never stops to amaze me," said the powerful woman as she looked away, trying to avoid eye contact with the politician. She looked at all the picture frames in her office, all of them with fake pictures of them smiling together, promoting a lie. A lie only a few knew the truth of. "But you're not here to discuss your brother's married life, are you?"

"No, certainly. I'm only here to discuss how we are going to save our names." Mycroft looked at her bare feet and she nodded.

"And our fortunes, Mycroft. Don't forget our fortunes."

 

...

"Finish what you started, Holmes" Ordered Johnny Boy when the consulting accountant was on top of him. The taller man, owner of the most soft and perfect curls went down on his knees and caressed the thief's marked stomach. Sherlock kissed John down his stomach, leaving traces of his own saliva until his grey eyes met a pair of dark pants, which were quickly removed with his teeth. And as soon as John's erected and swollen member was free, Holmes took it inside his mouth. He licked it from the base till its purple and wet head. The taller man could see how the thief was closing his hands into fists, clearly feeling big waves of pleasure with every suck he performed.

The posh pup sucked him like a lollipop and enjoyed its taste. Holmes closed his eyes as soon as Watson grabbed his dark hair with his hands, moving his head and thrusting into his mouth. John was fucking Sherlock's mouth and he felt in Heaven. Sherlock enclosed himself to that big and swollen member like if his own life depended on it, he even tried to have as much of John's enormous penis inside his mouth as he could. He also teased the thief, licking now and then the big tip and caressing his balls. And the blonde man knew he was close. But he wanted to return him the favour. Johnny Boy grabbed the consulting accountant's arm and threw him to the mattress. "It's my turn," he told Sherlock with a husky voice the dark haired man had never listened. But Holmes stopped him before he could take his hard member inside his mouth.

"Fuck me, thief."

Certainly, that's all Johnny Boy needed to hear.

 

...

"Sherlock needs to keep himself away from James Moriarty," stated Mycroft while his sister-in-law sipped more tea. "I've put maxim surveillance on him and I didn't like what I saw."

Irene shook her head and put her cup over the saucer. "Haven't met him but Sherlock says he's disgusting."

"He certainly is. James Moriarty has enough money to save most of Europe from bankruptcy. He has become quite interested on buildings and bricks. Got a lot of important business in Dublin. But what I disliked the most, was his spiderweb."

The lawyer frowned. "His spiderweb?"

Mycroft Holmes nodded before continuing. "James Moriarty manages a string of criminals all around Europe. Or did you believe he inherited all that money from his family? No, m'dear. This Irish man is a criminal mastermind, and with the help of his assistant Sebastian Moran, they killed anyone who said no to his words. And certainly, my brother dear is in danger."

The Adler woman laughed loudly at her brother-in-law words. "All of us misbehave, Mycroft. And all of us have assistants to do the dirty job. That's nothing new."

"Yes, Irene. You're right about that. You and Sarah, my brother and Molly, me and Anthea... the only difference is that we misbehave for the good of all of us and the world. He misbehaves to hurt and kill people. And he will kill Sherlock," he explained calmly.

The room was silent, only filled with the noises from the birds outside and the scents of the expensive perfumes the two members of the Adler-Holmes family were wearing.

"And how's that?"

"James Moriarty wants Sherlock."

"But Sherlock doesn't want anyone," assumed Irene, but Mycroft cut her off.

"Sherlock wants something he knows he can't have."

 

...

"Fuck me, John. Make me yours, make me scream your name," asked Holmes, whispering the words to the thief's ears and sucking his earlobes. This sent John shrives to his spine, and increased his desire towards the consulting accountant.

"I want you, John."

They kissed passionately this time, but John turned him, until Sherlock was on his hands and knees over the bed. The thief hurried himself to his drawer and took what he needed. He dressed his hard and swollen member with a condom.

He took one last look at that pale and muscled back of Sherlock Holmes and pressed himself on his entrance until he was finally fully inside Sherlock Holmes.

And the posh pup screamed his name, once, twice, three times... enough times to make John even harder and he strated thrusting like if it were the end of the fucking world.

 

...

 

 

"Where do you want me to start, Sir?" Sebastian was sitting next to him. They were inside the Irish posh car, and the driver was driving them close to the most exclusive neighbourhood of London. The millionaire looked at his phone and then out of the window, admiring the charming landscapes the city had to offer him. He had always loved that city, London. He always dreamt about expanding his strings over the cosmopolitan city, build and then make it grow there.

"Is always the same, dear Seb. _'Please Jim, can you fix it for me?', 'Please Jim, I want to get rid of this honest deputy'. 'Jim, I need this painting to be original'. 'Dear Jim, help me to fake my death and start a new life in Colombia'_. Dear Jim does all. Jim fixes all for them, and he gets all he wants. But why does Jim have a string of important and clever criminals all around Europe when some stupid and idiots thieves steal his lucky painting? It's simple, Seb. They try to fool the wrong man. Because now Jim will teach them a lesson. James Moriarty will skin them and turn them into a nice pair of shoes," Said the Irish while he ate a red apple. Sebastian was still waiting for orders when the millionaire James Moriarty had a new idea.

"Let's pay Sherlock Holmes a little visit."

 

...

 

Sherlock loved it. He enjoyed it. He was expecting to feel him inside him for so long. To feel his short but warm hands on his back, on his hips trying to push himself more and more inside him. John buried himself as many times as he wanted while the only audible sounds were the ones the bed made every time he thrusted inside Sherlock. The wooden headboard was hitting the walls and scratching the wallpapers. His bed was also making funny sounds.

"John!" Cried the consulting accountant every time John buried himself inside him, every time more deep than the previous thrust and every time he hit his prostate. Every time John did this, Sherlock bit his lip and moaned.

"Scream more" Replied Johnny Boy, grabbing Holmes by his bony hips, leaving dark and purple bruises on his pale skin.

"John! John! John! More, fuck me harder!" Screamed Sherlock Holmes as soon as he felt John collapsing inside him. And he did as well, his hard erected member spilled his white seed all over the thief's soft sheets.

Finally Sherlock Holmes had what he wanted, but he knew he wasn't going to have it as much as he would like. Because when both men could finally catch their breaths, the taller man was already dressing himself.

"Look at you, huh? Good as new," said the blonde thief as soon as he saw Holmes putting on his dark and tailored suit again.

"I have to go now," admitted the consulting accountant, buttoning his shirt when John placed the painting Greg had given to him in his room.

"Oh, I have something for you. Thought you might like it because I know how much you appreciate paintings and all. So, do you like it, Sherlock?"  
Watson had never seen Holmes's grey eyes opened so wide. He looked at the painting with keen and burning interest. His eyes were shinning and he was smirking, showing for the first time all his white and perfect, strong teeth.

"You've got very good taste, John. And finally, you're calling me by my name."

John smiled before replying, wrapping a gown around his naked body. "I thought you wanted to keep it professional."

"Professional is boring. Oh, I may call you soon. Another seven millions will be on the way," said Holmes while he was picking up his coat which had been discarded minutes ago. "I'll send Molly to pick up the painting later. Afternoon."

John stood there in silence while Sherlock covered the painting with the dark fabric.

 

...

 

Irene nodded in agreement with Mycroft. Of course he was right. She had told Sherlock. _"You don't have a heart"_ And in those days they were merely newly-wed husband and wife. The lawyer really had and still has feelings for him. Because Sherlock Holmes was the only man she could love.

"He's my husband, Mycroft. I don't want him to get hurt."

They didn't need to talk more. Enough had been said between the older Holmes and the powerful lawyer. They had to admit that words left unspoken were for the best.

"Mycroft, you should have told me you were coming for tea. I could have gotten you some of that cheesecake you love so much," said the consulting accountant as soon as he arrived at his residence, finding his brother getting ready to leave. He glanced at his wife and her bare feet.

"I didn't want to disturb your... meeting with John Watson," responded the politician, looking into Sherlock's grey eyes.

"Oh. Have you invited my brother for dinner, Irene?" The brunette woman smiled at him and kissed his husband on the lips. "You haven't accomplished one of the main clauses in our contract."  
Sherlock twisted his mouth, ready to say something when Mycroft cut him off.

"I want to talk to you, Sherlock. There's something we have to discuss. Anthea will be in touch with Molly so they can arrange a meeting." Nothing else was left to be said, and the politician departed from the house.

The consulting accountant sat on the red velvet sofa while his wife made her own way between his long legs. He didn't reject her, instead he let her do whatever she wanted. "Open my fly, will you Sherlock dear," Irene asked. She gasped when he folded his arms around her, reaching the zip on her back. He slowly pulled it down, caressing the appearing expanse of soft skin. His fingers were cool against her flushed skin, and she could barely contain a moan as his fingers worked their way down on her back.

"You smell like him." Her voice was light while Sherlock started to pull off her dark dress from her thin shoulders.

"How do you know?"

"Cheap perfume, Sherlock. Tell me, is he as good as I am?"

The doorbell rang. Sarah was nowhere to be seen. And the maid was busy, besides she was also deaf and mute so Sherlock glanced outside through the curtains of the windows of the living room.

"Who is it?" Irene asked while she looked at the surprise which slowly covered her husband's face.

Sherlock turned to look at her and grinned. "It's James Moriarty."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. What The Irish Wants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy Moriarty decides to pay Sherlock a little visit.

"James Moriarty. What a surprise," the consulting accountant purred as he opened the door to greet his client and employer. The Irish man smiled and adjusted his Alexander McQueen skull tie. "Please come in. Kettle just boiled."

The Irish oligarch smiled and entered the posh house. As soon as he was in, he saw the powerful lawyer he had heard a lot about these past days. The woman was sitting on a large red and velvet sofa, with her long legs crossed. She had her slim arms behind her back, trying to close her fly.

"Am I interrupting something?" sing-sang Moriarty while he sat down in front of Adler on the opposite sofa. Sherlock sat beside his wife and let a hand rest over his fake wife's leg.

"Oh no, please. We were just having a little chat, weren't we, Sherlock dear? I'm Irene Adler-Holmes. Pleased to meet you, Mister Moriarty," said the lawyer as she stood up from her place on the sofa. The rich man walked towards her and took Irene's hand to place a wet kiss on her palm.

"The pleasure is all mine, madam. Your husband here told me lots of good things about you, but he never mentioned you were so... attractive. Don't feel offended, Sherlock, but you're a lucky man." The consulting accountant faked a smile and the deaf and mute maid made her way in the room and placed three cups of tea with biscuits, milk and sugar. The woman handed each person in the room a cup and silently left the room.

"What do I owe the pleasure, Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, sipping from tea.

James Moriarty bit his bottom lip and smiled. "I was passing by and I told Seb, 'Why don't I visit my favourite accountant?' And here I am. But certainly, I think I came here to talk about business."

The lawyer stood up and kissed her husband's cheek, getting ready to leave the two men to discussing their businesses, money, bricks and mortgages. Being a woman, she had a sixth sense. Something in James Moriarty's eyes told her all she needed to know. The Irish wasn't the one you could have fun with. You can't fool James Moriarty. The oligarch was dangerous.

"I'd better leave you two alone. I have some cases to work on. Nice to meet you, Mister Moriarty," the woman said, and she smiled seductively at the Irish. He returned the smile and stood up, as every gentlemen would do.

"As I said, it was my pleasure."

They were silent, Sherlock and James, when Irene left the living room. The only thing both men could hear were her high heels hitting the floor and then up the stairs in her way up.

"Now that we're alone, what do you need from me, Mr. Moriarty?" asked Sherlock as soon as he felt the Irish's look on him.

James smiled widely and placed his cup back in his saucer. "I've lost another seven million Euros. And this time, I'm sure it wasn't a coincidence."

 

...

 

 

John turn off the hot water. After Holmes' departure the only thing he could do was think about him. The sex was, by far, the best sex he had ever had. And certainly, the thief had been with women and also men, but this time, Sherlock Holmes was the only one with whom he had really enjoyed the act. His perfect chest, his muscled arms, his soft, pale abdomen, his hard and swollen member, his narrow and bony hips, his long, endless legs… Sherlock Holmes's whole body was John's now.

He pushed aside the curtains of his shower to grab his towel to dry his wet body when he saw his own sister sitting on the closed lid of the loo, with a folder in her lap. She was smoking and thank god, she also wore her dark Ray Ban sunglasses.

"Harry, what the fuck are you doing here! I was having a damn shower-" yelled the head of the Wild Bunch angrily, but he was quickly interrupted by his lovely sister.

"I got the files, Johnny. I have all the fucking informer's poems and depositions. They know all about us, brother," Harry said, removing her dark sunglasses, glaring at her brother.

"Mycroft Holmes came over. He said he will help us," John said while he wrapped his blue towel around his hips. "Greg told me you visited that lawyer."

Both brother and sister decided to remain silent until John was properly dressed with a cup of tea in his hands.

"Irene gave me this. She said something about that Micro man-"

"Mycroft," Johnny corrected.

Harry continued. "She said she got these papers because she's a criminal lawyer, but Mycroft had to help her. They have all the information they need to put us in jail to never let us go," Harry explained, sipping more beer from her small bottle, something John wasn't fond of but he allowed her for this moment.

"Mycroft told me something about the informer. He sold our heads, Harry-"

"Not only _our_ heads, Johnny. He handed over all our acquaintances, all our jurisdictions in London and even the names of those who hire us. That fucking little rat sold us in exchange of his freedom." said Harry while her short hands were balled into fists.

 

...

 

 

"Coincidence?" repeated the consulting accountant while he drank more tea.

"Yes, Sherlock. Fourteen million Euros lost means nothing to me, you know that more than anyone, you're my consulting accountant," answered the Irish with a sympathetic tone in his voice. "But I don't like it when people try to make a fool of me."

The consulting accountant shrugged and crossed his long legs. The silence of the room could have scared everyone, but Sherlock Holmes was calm. He didn't have any fears.

"I'm a very calm person. I don't shout, I don't hit and I don't bite, Sherlock. But this time... This time these people tried to play a little game with the wrong man."

Sherlock nodded. "And how can I help you?" he asked.

"Good you ask, good you ask."

 

...

 

 

"I don't like this man, Irene."

The lawyer went to her room after meeting the Irish. There she found her assistant, still dressed with Sherlock's blue gown.

"Neither do I. Did you hear Mycroft? This man is dangerous. I think Sherlock is making a big mistake by playing with him," said the brunette woman while she carefully removed her makeup.

"I don't want to lose him," she added, looking at her partner through her mirror. Sarah nodded and looked down at Sherlock's blue gown, the very same one that was covering her naked body. They could be frivolous, but they were both very fond of the consulting accountant. After years of being together, sharing and living a fake life, both women decided they were going to do whatever they could to stop the Irish James Moriarty. To save Sherlock Holmes.

"What are we going to do then?" asked Sarah with a deep crease between her perfect eyebrows.

"Wait."

 

...

 

 

"His freedom? What are you talking about, Harry?" asked John, almost drowning himself with tea.

"I mean what I fucking said, Johnny! This shitty little man had sold us, but I'm not going to jail! We're going to find him and I'll kill him with my own bare hands. Johnny, I promise you that as soon as I know who the fuck betrayed us, I swear I'll kill him," shouted Harry with all the strength her lungs could muster. John rubbed his forehead with his hands, processing all the things Mycroft had told him. Harry was right. That informer, whoever he or she was, deserved to be killed. Because that nasty and dirty rat had also sentenced him to go to Afghanistan. The bank knew beforehand about the theft and that's why he had been caught. Harry's plan had been perfection itself. He wasn't supposed to be caught, but he was.  
That fucking informer was going to suffer. And the Watsons were going to ensure that.

"Calm down, Harry. Have you read that folder? What does it say?" John asked, his voice more at ease than how he felt.

"Of course I've read it! _J.A_. are the initials of that dirty rat."

"It's a pseudonym, Harry-"

"I know it's a fucking pseudonym, Johnny!" The brain of the Wild Bunch burst into tears and John couldn't help but feel very angry himself. He was angry because they were in danger, because his sister was facing a five and because they had been betrayed. She allowed herself to cry on her brother's shoulder while he softly rubbed her back, assuring her they were going to find out who was the informer.

And they were going to kill him together.

 

...

 

 

"What do you know about Switzerland?" the Irish asked while he looked in Holmes's grey and bottomless eyes.

The consulting accountant frowned. "Switzerland? European country. Good place to practice some skiing, good chocolate, good place to set up bank account as well," replied Holmes, his voice calm.

"I'd like you to come with me then. I have a painting, you see, about a nice and lovely place in Switzerland. But it got lost... just like the fourteen million Euros!" the Irish cheerfully chirped. "It's my lucky painting," he added with a smile. "But like I said, I'd like you to come with me and see the place with your own eyes," he concluded with sparkles in his dark eyes.

The tall consulting detective opened his mouth to say something when Moriarty interrupted him. "How long does it take you to say 'I don't know'?"

"I don't know," Sherlock bantered when the Irish stood up, ready to leave.

"I owe you a fall, Sherlock." He towered over Sherlock and smirked menacingly. "I. Owe. You," he said slowly, stressing the separate words. James strode towards the door and turned around one last time. "Give your wife a kiss from me." And he disappeared from the house, into his car where Sebastian Moran was waiting for him.

 

...

 

 

A RocknRolla fights for those he loves. He gives everything in every battle. When he does that, he always wins. He knows how to win and how to play. The real Rocknrolla is flawless. He knows with whom to play his little games.

But sometimes, even the best Rocknrolla man makes mistakes.

Because the real Rocknrolla is _human_.


	11. What We Want To Have

The same night the Irish paid his beloved consulting accountant a visit, he also touched himself thinking about him. Sherlock Holmes and his dark and soft curls; Sherlock Holmes and his white and porcelain skin; Sherlock Holmes and his grey eyes and sharp cheekbones; Sherlock Holmes and his long hands and fingers; Sherlock Holmes and his long and endless legs. Outside his room's door, Sebastian Moran was putting his black leather gloves on. He had been instructed by the best man he could have ever wished for. If he was able to skin a cat, he was also able to skin Sherlock Holmes. With a cat, you can certainly make a pair of modest flat shoes. But with Sherlock Holmes' skin, Seb knew he could make a nice pair of high and posh boots for his employer.

Moriarty's moans were bestial, almost like the roar of a wild animal. Behind the black glasses he was wearing, Seb closed his eyes and cursed the consulting accountant's name.  
His employer didn't want to believe him, but Seb knew Sherlock Holmes was hiding something and he wasn't talking about dirty laundry or rubbish in his bins, no. Sebastian Moran knew Sherlock Holmes was playing with James Moriarty, and he knew Sherlock Holmes was the one behind the lost fourteen million Euros. He just needed proof. And yes, he got it.

When a man digs for so long, he always finds everything he was looking for, you see. Sherlock Holmes needed to be more careful.

"I'm here to pick up Mr. Holmes's painting." Molly appeared the following morning dressed as always, smart and perfectly, wearing a strong scent John couldn't erase from his memory not even now. Her red and dangerously high heels hit the wooden floor of John's flat at Baker Street forcefully when she walked in. The thief was reading the papers and sipping his tea when he saw her coming.

"He gave me strict and specifics instructions to take it to 666 Belgravia Street."

Johnny Boy looked at her from head to toes, scanning her feminine figure, wondering how many times that woman had been possessed by Holmes. He tried to look for traces of his touches on the pale skin of her long and exposed legs, traces of those cupid-bow lips on her porcelain neck. He nodded while he gestured her to follow him to the kitchen.

"I imagine you came here in that black car. I'll carry it downstairs-"

The blonde thief never expected Molly to touch his shoulder and say the things she had told him. John had always heard that determinated voice on her, always trying to be secure about herself even when her face never matched her attitude. Poor and fragile Molly, always hiding behind that long coat. Poor and fragile Molly, always being touched in front of everyone. Poor and fragile Molly, always being used to fill a human and primitive need. Poor and fragile Molly, always wanted to do the job. Poor and fragile Molly, always ignored, never loved by the man she wanted him to do so.

"Mister Watson, I'd like to have a word with you."

Watson only nodded and both sat in opposite chairs around the kitchen table. _'The Falls'_ was still covered with that dark fabric.

 

...

 

A decoy. It had been a decoy, of course, we are talking about Mrs. Adler-Holmes. It started like that and it continued like that. An unspoken agreement between a threesome in which money, wealth, fame, two important names and dynasty was the main prize for a good game. A man capable of increasing anyone's fortunes with deductive and financial plans and a woman capable of directing an orgy of judges to win the most difficult court cases and then smile with joy for the press.

That was the way Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler misbehaved to get what they wanted.

She remembers the first time she saw him. As soon as her green eyes had glanced at a picture of him in the papers, her long red nails were already pressed against it. The long and hard riding crop looked good on him, of course. And when "I want him" escaped from his red lips, Sarah was already calling Molly to arrange a meeting.

That's what it takes.

Now, ask Sherlock Holmes what made him marry that woman. Was the pressure of the money, power and family? Was the need of an heir, someone to carry on with his blood and his intelligence? Was it Irene Adler's beauty? You're so wrong, friend. What made Sherlock Holmes marry that woman, the very same one that was capable of sleeping with more than three different men in one night just to prove how powerful and strong she was not only in court but in bed too, was her mind. Because so far, the Adler woman had been the only one capable of keeping up with his intellect, his mind games and his riddles, because the consulting accountant Sherlock Holmes was a mass of pieces, a puzzle hard to read and impossible to solve. But after the meeting, the brunette woman, owner of those green eyes, red lips, long legs and modest breasts, she showed Sherlock Holmes she was the only woman capable of not only messing up his mind but his body as well. Because being alone between four walls and in the unique company of a bed, Holmes and Adler understood the world could be a better place to live if they become a couple.

That sounds so selfish. But it's the truth. Although, the consulting accountant also did it to mock his older sibling, he also did it for the well being of his brain. He was bored, and Irene had something to offer. The powerful lawyer did it because she knew it was for the best. She had an appearance to keep up, an image to maintain. The image she wanted to show the people wasn't perfect if Sarah was in there as well. The Royals and the PM's lawyer, a lesbian? The world had changed and they weren't on the medieval times, but even while living in the twenty first century, there were things that needed to be hidden inside a closet.

"I want you in bed with me, Sherlock. Like the first time, remember? Can you remember, Sherlock?" murmured Irene was she hit her husband's stomach hard with the riding crop. He was lying on his back, under her thin frame, savoring with his tongue the traces of his own blood left on his arm after Irene hit him. "Can you remember how many times I screamed your name until you came inside me?" she asked as she undid her lacy bra and threw it to the floor. With a quick and easy movement, Sherlock made her roll on her back until he was the one on top.

"I do remember. And I also recall the state of the bed after we had intercourse. And your state," said the consulting accountant as he looked into her green eyes. Their faces were inches apart from each other and both could feel the other's breath.

"Love. We made love that time, Sherlock," Irene corrected softly. Her left hand traveled down to her husband's crotch area. He successfully suppressed a moan and kept looking at her, his eyes burning with smothered lust.

"I made you mine. Do not deny the times you thought about me while Sarah was here, touching your skin and kissing your lips," whispered the dark haired man while he moved his hands further between her long and pale legs. Contrary to Sherlock, she did moan and she did it loudly, filling all the rooms of the house.

"You're the only man I can be with and the only one I'll ever love, Sherlock."

His grey eyes scanned her face, studying her gestures, her long eyelashes, her perfect eyebrows, her newborn wrinkles and her red lips. No matter the situation, Irene Adler's lips were always red painted. But without saying a word, Holmes moved his hand away from between the woman's legs and wrapped himself in his blue gown, his face clouded when he smelt Sarah Sawyer's scent on it.

"Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side, Miss Adler."

 

...

 

"Molly, I have known you since... a long time. You can call me John, you know," Johnny Boy offered with a sincere and modest smile. He felt how relieved Molly was as soon as he smiled at her. She felt more secure and confident immediately.

"What do you want to talk about?" asked John, crossing his legs, while Molly gulped hard before taking enough air to continue.

"John... what do you think about me?"

Surprise. That was John's first feeling when she asked him that question. She looked at him expectantly, but she was also looking at him for unspoken answers. And then John saw that film with Molly in it flashing over his retina, that film many people say they see when they're about to die. All the moments of his life with Molly on them were filling his mind. His blue and tired eyes from the shag of the day before betrayed him. He blinked once or twice before his answer could meet Miss Hooper's ears.

"I think you're a beautiful woman, Molly. Smart, loyal too," he admitted. But Molly wanted more.

"I want to know what you really think of me, John."

And Johnny Boy understood she wasn't going to let this topic go before she had heard what she really wanted. And what she really wanted was the truth. What for? Why did she want to hear his opinion? Was John's opinion important to her? She really cared for what John had been thinking of her?

"Just say it. You have seen me preparing cocaine lines. You have seen me being touched in many places by Mr. Holmes. You have seen me naked, John. I want to know-" she tried to explain, but John cut her off.

"And why do you want to know what I think about you?"

"Just say it." She made it sound like an order. And a man always obeys orders from Ms Molly Hooper.

"I think you're a very beautiful woman, and if things were different, believe me, I'd be behind your legs all day. You're also a very good assistant. I think you do your job perfectly, if what I have seen you doing is what I can call "a job". I don't like it when Sherlock touches you in intimate places in front of everyone. You should respect and love yourself a bit more and don't let him do that and-"  
The blonde thief forgot the direction his words were taking, until Molly cut him off with a high tone of voice he had never heard from her. She was blushing and she looked angry. Her high heels hit the wooden floor again and for a moment John feared she could fall while she moved her exposed legs.

Molly stood up from her chair and walked around the kitchen, trying to hide her red face. "I love myself!"

Watson sighed inwardly. "I'm sorry-"

"John, I love Sherlock with my life. I work very hard for him. I do whatever he wants me to do and I keep silent. I wear clothes I don't like and shoes I can't use. I use makeup as a mask, only to be liked by him, to be the woman he likes to kiss, to smell, to caress. The Molly you see here now is the Molly Sherlock Holmes likes. The real Molly, the one who likes kittens, jeans and trainers is the Molly Sherlock Holmes will never love. He will never like _her_."

John could only keep quiet. The entire flat was silent and the only audible sounds were those coming from the street outside.  
"Why are you telling me this, Molly?" the thief asked when he saw the blonde assistant drying the few tears that had fallen from her eyes. Those tears were dark, her makeup was ruined and her pink cheeks were stained with mascara. She looked at herself in the mirror which hung on the wall opposite the sofa.

"He's sad, John. And I don't know what to do to save him."

 

...

 

Sherlock Holmes locked himself inside his room. He threw himself on his big and comfy mattress, feeling a hard and painful erection pressing in his abdomen. He knew he had to take care of it, and Molly was nowhere to be seen. The single thought of Molly brought him back to reality, and after looking inside his desk drawer he found the nicotine patches that had always helped him to think after he stopped using cocaine.

Molly. Poor and fragile Molly. For how long had he been able to keep her by his side? For how long was Molly going to stay until she could say stop? Poor and fragile Molly was everything he needed, but yet he wasn't able to see her differently. Molly was Molly. And that little sentence with three words meant that Molly was always going to be his assistant, the one picking up his phone when it was ringing inside his pockets. But Molly did a lot more than that. Miss Hooper was the one sleeping with him when he felt alone, vulnerable and ill. There she had been, lying by his side, combing her fingers through his dark curls when he wanted her to. There she had been, letting him kiss her and having sex with her when he wanted her body, when his sexual and primitive needs were haunting him, the man he was. There she had been when he wanted to get high and there she had been when he wanted to quit.

What would he do without her? Did he know about her feelings? Of course he did. And what did he do about them? Nothing. Why? Because he knew things left unspoken were for the best. He knew Molly hated those dresses, those high heels, the makeup and the fake appearances. Sherlock knew Molly loved to wear jeans and trainers. He knew she wanted to have a cat, that she wanted to be more than just an assistant to him. But Sherlock did not want her that way. He just wanted her to be on his leash, wearing dresses, shoes and makeup as a costume. Selfish and heartless bastard he was.

But then, what did Sherlock want? My dear friends, if you don't know the answer to that question, I can tell you. It is simple, really. What Sherlock wanted was John Watson. He only wanted blonde, short, wounded, kind, tea-drinking and jumper-loving John Watson. Something he knew he would never have.

No matter how hard he tried.

 

...

 

"Save him? Sad? What are you talking about Molly?" Johnny Boy asked, worried. Of course he was worried. And Mycroft's words came to his mind. He had told him something about Sherlock forgetting important details. And the thief had a bad feeling.

Molly finished wiping away the black tears that had fallen from her eyes and looked at the thief. "I know he's sad. And I know what he feels and what he thinks. I can feel him, John. He has always had everything he could wish for. He owns most of this city, he has more money you could ever imagine. But I know he wants something he can't have. And he's in danger," Molly sniffed, looking at John for permission to continue. The thief nodded, waiting expectantly for her to continue. "The Irishman, the one you have been stealing money from, he's dangerous."

Hooper felt shivers creeping down her spine as she remembered James Moriarty and his assistant Sebastian Moran. She had been keeping an eye on them for quite a while now, and she knew what they were capable of when their plans turned awry. And she also knew that the game Holmes had started would end up badly. She had warned her employer but he enjoyed the thrill too much and couldn't bring himself to stop playing a little game with the Irishman.

"He will find out about the two robberies and he will kill him, John. And he will kill you too."

 

...

 

The Irishman, Moriarty's right hand man, smiled inwardly when he received the material he had been expecting for ages. All he received was a black envelope, but its content made the hit man very happy. He playfully toyed with several photographs of a blonde man carrying a Luis Vuitton bag, getting inside an Italian restaurant and meeting Sherlock Holmes. His source, a man close to the thief, had given him ample information and data about the thief in charge of the two robberies against his employer James Moriarty.

And Seb couldn't deny the informer what he asked: protection. He sold him the heads of four people; including Sherlock Holmes's, only to be protected by Moriarty's right hand.

Now Seb had sufficient evidence to convince his employer that Sherlock Holmes wasn't a man to trust. Sherlock Holmes _deserved_ to be turned into a pair of nice, snug shoes.


	12. What We Do Not Tell

_"What else do you know? Because you do know more, mate. Here, let me explain. You told us their names, their addresses, what they do... but I bet they have clients too. Big clients..."_

_A man, hidden in the dark shadows of an office, nodded and took another sip of his beer, courtesy of the cops of course. The two men sitting in front of him each had a pen in their hand hovering over a slip of paper, ready to scribble down whatever he would tell them. The more information he gave, the more protection he would have. Names and addresses meant that his own name and the name of one he chose could be free of any charge. But clients, "jobs", procedures and even money figures could mean total immunity. For him and the person he wanted to protect._

_"I've recently joined the Wild Bunch... but I know about a few jobs." The man moved his dark and heavy sunglasses over the bridge of his nose and continued speaking. "Jobs that involve million of Euros. Two robberies from the same man."_

_The cops nodded and wrote down the new information proportioned by the tale-tell rat. "And your client was?" asked one of the two cops with ease and confidence._

_The man hidden in the shadows smiled before replying. He was happy to say the client's name. It was his ultimate revenge._   
_"The famous consulting accountant Sherlock Holmes."_

 

...

 

A gun, money, some beer cans, an empty tea cup, jumpers, condoms and lube. Those were some of the things that filled John's room. No need to mention the other objects, such as money, credit cards and an army uniform. Both women and men had been in here.

They screamed his name here, leaving their deep seeds. Sherlock Holmes' seed, his smell and scent was still here, spread all over John's sheets, haunting the thief every time he wrapped himself with them.

Molly's words were filling his mind too. That Irish guy was going to kill them any time soon. Their heads were on stakes.

The only people who knew about Moriarty were Greg and Harry. John had chosen them because they were the only friends he could trust. Besides, Lestrade was a DI of the New Scotland Yard, he was able to get all the protection and all the information they needed to be safe. Harry was the one in charge of the intelligence and procedures of the gang. She knew when and how they could and should move around the city.

Sally and Anderson, _they_ were different. Something about them made Johnny Boy have his doubts about the drug dealers. As Sherlock Holmes told him, he was still looking at Sally's knees every time he saw her. It was impossible not to do it.

But let me tell you, my dears, John's decision was wise. He never should have allowed them to become part of the Wild Bunch.

The days passed, and the consulting accountant didn't call him. Miss Hooper promised him she was going to be in touch as well, and as soon as she got any news she was going to call him.

 

...

 

Miss Hooper arrived very early at the Adler-Holmes residence, ready to work. That morning was different, because Irene and Sarah were away, her employer was alone and maybe he was craving for some physical contact: touches or any other kind of affection. And there she was, dressed in a tight blue dress, with a pair of dark high heels on her feet, perfect makeup, red lipstick covered her thin lips and a big purse was slung over her shoulder.

When she entered, the maid had already prepared breakfast, and now she was cleaning downstairs. Raising her index finger, she gestured to Molly that the consulting accountant was upstairs. Every step Molly took on the stairs matched her heartbeat. On her way to her employer's room, she wondered if this wasn't too much. She never tried to seduce him, it was all the opposite. Well, if what Holmes did to her could be catalogued as "seduction".

She knocked on the door and a very low "come in" entered her ears.

"Good morning, Mister Holmes," Molly murmured. Her voice was so soft, and her face had a appealing shade of scarlet when Sherlock raised his gaze from his phone to look at her. She could feel those greyish eyes scanning her body.

Complicity in the extreme. Molly would look sexy, just for him, and he could do whatever he wanted to her. And she liked it. She liked it because that was the only way she could be close to him. That was the only way she could feel those long, cold hands ghosting over her skin, and that was the only way she could feel those pink and warm lips moving against hers.

"Sit down Molly, there are a few things I want to discuss with you," Sherlock said, moving the breakfast tray with the untouched tea and toast that was placed beside him on the bed. "Since Irene is not in the country, I need you to do some things for me." He purred when Molly did as she was told, and she sat over the end of the bed, her legs crossed suggestively.

Getting ready to write down his requests or whatever he wanted, Hooper opened her employer's agenda and waited for him to start, when he left his bed and wrapped his red gown around his naked body. He walked towards the painting, a gift from John Watson Molly knew, and stared at it with his back to his assistant.

Molly cleared her throat and whispered, "You look sad."

When Holmes didn't say a word, she continued in the same soft, kind voice, "You miss him, don't you?"

"I have a scheduled meeting with Mycroft, haven't I?" Sherlock asked, still looking at 'The Falls'.

She swallowed hard, nervous bit determined at the same time. "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead. No, sorry-"

Holmes, the consulting accountant, cut her off before she could finish her sentence. "Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area. We both know what are you here for and now shut up!" Holmes bellowed at her for the first time since he knew her and since she was working for him.

Silence hung heavily in the room, and Molly fought against the tears that were threatening to spill and ruin her carefully applied makeup. But she continued; she was going to say it, no matter what it would cost.

"When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad, -" Molly tried again.

"Molly-" Sherlock warned her to stop it.

But Miss Hooper was brave. "You look sad when you think _we_ can't see you. But are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

Sherlock Holmes turned around and looked at her. She was standing up, and finally hanging her purse over her slim shoulder. The same shoulder the consulting accountant remembered he had kissed and bit months ago, when he needed her body.

" _You_ can see me," he replied.

"I don't count." She let out a painful and hurt sigh and closed her now red-rimmed eyes. Sherlock tried to say something when he covered the painting again with the dark fabric. He moved towards her and tried to reach out for her hand but she shook her head, stepping away from him. For the first time in many years, Molly rejected his touch.

"Mister Mycroft Holmes is waiting for you in the Diogenes Club. I'll in the car."

When Molly left the room, Sherlock realised he was not okay. She was right, he was sad. He was craving for something, for someone he knew he could never have.

But he had a mask he knew he should wear. Sherlock Holmes had been taught that if you wanted to be successful, you had to show the entire world that you were already a very successful person. And that was something he was so used to. That was why he wore Spencer & Hart suits, YSL shoes, Dolce & Gabbana shirts, Hugo Boss scarves... And don't forget the woman he had by his side, physically perfect with long, well-toned legs, small waist and modest breasts, owner of one of the most expensive wardrobes as well.

Just to finish, Sherlock Holmes had it all: a perfect and beautiful wife, a clever and fantastic brain, one of the most successful jobs, a nice house and a very expensive car. Even an assistant capable of do anything for him. Even being the owner of all that, of the entire _fucking_ lot, Sherlock Holmes admitted he would exchange it all for just the only thing he couldn't buy.

And that thing was John Watson.

Dressed in a new suit and wearing his long coat, Sherlock Holmes got inside his own car and met Molly Hooper's red and sad eyes. As soon as he closed the door, the driver left Belgravia Street. He threw his assistant another side-ways glance. The blonde was looking out of the window, her thin and delicate hands lay restfully in her lap. The consulting accountant put one of his bare hands over hers and for the first time, Molly felt them warm and not cold. She immediately looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Molly."

"Am I fired?"

Sherlock moved towards her and with one hand caressed her flushed cheek. Again, he taught her the same lesson he gave her when they met. Words left unspoken were for the best. She had agreed the very first time. So how could our dear Molly help agreeing now as well?

 

...

 

They walked through endless corridors and they finally arrived at Mycroft's office. The entire building was silent, only cut by assistants and secretaries' high heels hitting the floors.

"Hello Sherlock. I see you came with your lovely assistant, Miss Hooper."

The consulting accountant sat in front of his brother's long desk while Molly shook hands with Mycroft. She was about to leave when Sherlock stopped her. "Molly, stay."

"Miss Hooper can wait outside, Sherlock-"

"I said she stays."

Mycroft sighed as he nodded. "Well, at least there's another seat so you don't make her sit on your lap."

Poor and fragile Molly sat awkwardly down beside her employer, feeling two pairs of greyish and green eyes dancing over her frame.

"I know I'm not summoned here because you want to hear my advices about mortgages or bricks, Mycroft dear. Irene hasn't called you to invite you for dinner because she's out of the country, and the last thing I can think of now is-"

"Sherlock, I want to talk about James Moriarty."

 

...

 

James Moriarty was a very calm and very peaceful man. He loved slow music, steady steps and soft voices. The Irish loved to threaten people by just using that sing-sang voice of his. He really enjoyed feeling his vocal chords work under the commands of his brain and he was so happy and delighted to see how the man or woman in front of him suffered inwardly.

Oh god, yes. James Moriarty enjoyed watching people die.

But no, he never gets his hands dirty. Jimmy Moriarty would never kill someone with his bare hands, no. The Irishman loved killing them with his dark and bottomless eyes. That's all it takes. One look, and Sebastian Moran would finish the job. A frown and Seb would fire the gun aimed at the damned bastard trembling in front of him.

My dear friends, James Moriarty never expected to see, read or even hear what Seb had collected for him. Even when he maybe knew it all along.

There were thousands and thousands of pictures of his favourite consulting accountant Sherlock Holmes and a short, blonde and blue-eyed man named John Watson eating in restaurants, talking and even one picture in which his favourite tall and dark haired Holmes man has a hand claiming Watson' leg. That same leg James Moriarty has touched in his deep and sweet dreams.

Seb decided this was his moment to explain why he had interrupted his employer's swimming session in that dark and freezing/ice-cold pool. "My sources have been following and tracking down this Watson man. He's the leader of the Wild Bunch, the top gang in London. They sell cocaine and they are usually hired to perform robberies, assaults and some kidnappings. Three men and two women form this-"

"Are you implying the dear Sherlock Holmes is the one who stole my money?" James asked, impatiently interrupting his faithful and beloved assistant.

Moran nodded. "He was the only one who knew about the fourteen million Euros, Sir. And these photos show and _prove_ Sherlock Holmes and Watson are associates-"

Moriarty interrupted him again. "Seb, are you sure? You know what I do to those who lie to me," The Irish oligarch sung when he dried his wet arms with his bright pink towel and glared at him again with those dark and piercing eyes. "At least, I hope you have a good authority. You were taught by the best, weren't you?"

The assistant nodded and removed his dark sunglasses. "I have an inside man. He wanted protection in exchange of more evidence. This authority gave me names, places and figures, Mr. Moriarty. There's no doubt Sherlock Holmes is involved."

The millionaire shook his head. "Ah Seb, faithful and honest Seb. You're always there to protect me, to tell me who has lied to me, who I shouldn't trust... I must promote you!" The two Irishmen walked to the dressing rooms. "For now, we will wait. A nice revenge must be prepared carefully. Everything needs to be settled, but you can start by booking three tickets to Switzerland. I want to take Sherlock Holmes to The Recheinbach Falls, and you're coming with us. This time I want you to watch it because now I think I've finally found the man worthy of being killed with my own hands."

Sebastian Moran smirked pleased and nodded. A quick call to one of his contacts at Heathrow and three airplane tickets had been booked to Switzerland.

Daddy will _love_ chocolate.

 

...

 

"What about him?" Sherlock asked, obviously not pleased with his brother's question.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Stop this game, Sherlock. He's not like the others-"

But his young brother interrupted him. "So what? What are you going to do now, Mycroft? I know what I'm doing!"

Molly continued staring at the floor. She didn't dare to raise her eyes and meet those two brothers shouting at each other and looking at each other with hatred spilling from their eyes. She knew how her employer looked when he was angry, that wasn't anything new to her. But even after years and years of working for Sherlock Holmes, she knew his older brother Mycroft was all the opposite from the dark-haired man. He was softer, he cared more. Anthea told her once that Mycroft Holmes was sweet and respectful, kind. Curiosity kills the cat, so brave little Molly Hooper lifted her eyes and looked at that red haired man.

She met his angry green eyes for the first time in her life. And Molly was scared.

"Since _you_ started talking, my dear brother, you have been claiming to be the cleverest person in the world. And I _had_ no doubts about that. In fact, I even admired you. As a member of the British Government, I had assured you how grateful and happy my co-workers were and how much the Queen was pleased since you started this business of yours. 'Consulting Accountant' certainly came as an unexpected job, not only for our parents but for me as well. But even being as clever as you say you are, you didn't realised you have cameras tracing your way and following your steps?"

Sherlock frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft grimaced, and continued, "Did James Moriarty inherit all that money from his own family, Sherlock?"

"A high percentage of it yes-"

"And the other part?"

"Business. Investments, buildings in Dublin, bank accounts in Switzerland and in the Caribbean."

Mycroft nodded and presented a big and heavy folder to his brother. "James Moriarty is indeed a criminal mastermind with an extensive ring of criminals all over the main land. He has enough power in the forty four countries of this continent to start a Third World War. He's indeed a man in whom you can place your trust if you need someone as important as the Prime Minister or the Pope to be killed. All his money, those numbers you handle and manage and all his business have red blood stains. Impressive you didn't see this. Because this, Sherlock, was _textbook_."

What do you expect now? You think Sherlock said "thank you" to his brother for the photos and the information? You think Sherlock Holmes kissed his brother's cheek and let a hand travel through his ginger hair? You think Sherlock Holmes invited him for dinner that night just to show how grateful he was for saving his life? No, no and no. Sherlock Holmes shrugged, showing how little he cared about his client's background.

And Mycroft Holmes realised he needed to push more. "Molly dear, why don't you tell Sherlock what your research and your sources found?"

Sherlock looked at her, surprised. Molly was still looking at the floor and the consulting accountant knew _she_ wasn't surprised at all. Molly Hooper knew about all of this.

"As soon as we met those two heavies at the bank, when the second rob happened, I researched him and I've found fewer things than Mister Mycroft Holmes, I don't have those big sources like he does but-" Molly took a deep breath feeling her employer grey eyes on her "-I've found his assistant Sebastian Moran had planted tails on you and on John Watson-"

"John? Why him? And why did you never tell me about this!" Sherlock bellowed at her for the second time in her life and for the second time in the day as well.

Molly continued staring at the floor "You wouldn't have let me, Sir. I talked to John Watson and he's aware of the situation. DI Lestrade is working on their security but there's an authority who alerted James Moriarty on you. He knows everything."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft who nodded. "Thank you, Molly dear. Efficient as always. Keep an eye on her, Sherlock. Maybe someday I'll need a second assistant and I warn you she will be on top of the list."

"Stop trying to be funny. Funny doesn't suit you. Tell me what you want now. Did you schedule this meeting just to laugh at me? To teach me a lesson? This is-"

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes. He smirked at Sherlock, curling his thin pink lips upwards. "Look at this, Sherlock, that's all it takes. A man desperate enough to show off and put not only his but his entire family' heads on stakes just to impress a thief. You blindfolded yourself and started playing a game with the wrong man." Mycroft stopped only to enjoy his little brother's angry look at him, and then he continued, "He is a _thief_ , Sherlock. The world's only consulting accountant falls hard for an ordinary thief? For god's sake, he is not even good at what he does. He got caught and sent to Afghanistan!" Mycroft glared at his brother and he lowered his voice to his threatening-danger level. "It seems I made an error in my judgment of you. Tell me, did he make you scream and orgasm violently enough to compensate for your _suicide_ and the _fall_ of your family?"

Molly and Mycroft sensed the anger that kept growing inside Sherlock's body. And it was going to explode at any moment. "My sex life is none of your business. But my _suicide_ , the _fall_ of my family, what are you talking about? I don't even have a family!" hissed the young Holmes.

The older brother shook his head. "Certainly, your sex life is something I don't even _want_ to talk about but you do have a family. You have a wife to think of and it doesn't matter if it's just a contract, Irene's still your wife and I'm your brother, believe it or not. You had planned your suicide since you started playing this little game with the Irishman. I won't let you throw the dice one more time if it means the fall of this family. We have a name to keep up for god's sake!"

Mycroft had started talking calmly, but he ended up sounding even more threatening than Sherlock. The consulting accountant kept his hands glued together under his chin while Molly was still staring at the floor.

Sherlock Holmes knew he had a wife and a brother. He knew they had to be protected and be kept safe.

What his brother didn't know was that there was someone else who needed Sherlock's protection. And that person was John Watson. A thief who didn't have a chance to occupy his rightful place in the consulting accountant's life but who most definitely did in Sherlock Holmes's heart.

"What's the plan?" Sherlock asked, half defeated.

 

...

 

Look at that man, sitting on that nice armchair with a warm and sweet cup of tea and a toast generously decorated with strawberry jam. He looks so cute, doesn't he? With all those funny, soft and warm jumpers, watching telly and laughing at some silly sitcom. A typical English man, isn't he? Dear reader, do you like him? Oh, look at your face, you look so vacant! I know what you're thinking. He looks so soft, like a teddy bear you can cuddle after a vigorous shag at night and kiss lazily during a morning snog session... I read your mind, didn't I?

You also think he's as peaceful as he looks now? You think he only gets high doses of adrenaline when he steals your money? Or when he rides you on that big bed inside his room? Or when he posses you roughly against the cold walls of his flat? No, no, no and no, dear. You're so wrong! You didn't learn anything!

You need to wait and see.

The real Rocknrolla will show his true self soon. Because the real Rocknrolla rocks the entire world and he fights for those he loves. Don't you dare to lay a finger on them, because John Watson, aka "Johnny Boy" will show you the real Rocknrolla and his true power.

You'll so fucked up.


	13. What we plan

DI Greg Lestrade had what you can call a perfect life. A pretty wife who was as stupid as a cow, even stupid enough to ignore his dark business and all the love bites the silver-haired man had on his neck. He also possessed a good job, which made him rather powerful. Being the DI of the New Scotland Yard was the key of his success, presently. He's got the opportunity to solve crimes and chase criminals. But the true pleasure of that job was the information he was able to get. With a simple click with his mouse, Greg Lestrade knew everything about anyone. He could look at CCTV footage, people's files, photos and he had unlimited access to all ungoing operations... He had guns, he had badges: everything was perfect.

Oh, don't forget the Wild Bunch and his association with John Watson. A very well hidden Bank account in France and our dear corrupt DI of the New Scotland Yard had got it all. Women, money, power… Everything.

But one day, all that power, all those women and all that money were about to slip through his fingers when a very simple and very little rumour filled his ears. The criminal division of The New Scotland Yard heard from a powerful and secret authority that a DI of the Yard was playing dirty. A filthy, nasty rat was walking among them, and nobody knew how it was. Yet.

He had to move fast.

He had to move before the rope was tight around his neck.

"They know? Are you fucking kidding us, Greg? How the hell do they know? Oh shit." Harry massaged her temples as she closed her eyes. John almost choked on his tea when he heard his best mate's news. The New Scotland Yard knew about they had a corrupt man within them and it was just a matter of time before they realised it was Greg.

"I'm not fucking kidding you, Harry. They know! That fucking little rat of an informer told the Yard!" Greg bellowed as he fell into one of John's armchairs, defeated.

Harry bit one of her fingernails off and then cleared her throat. "And if they get you, they'll get us as well! Oh gosh, I swear it: as soon as I find out who that damn informer is, I'll kill him! I'll cut his dick off and-"

John interrupted her, "OK Harry, we got the idea!" He turned to Greg and sighed, trying to remain calm and focused. "Who told you this?"

"Dimmock. He's in my division and he has some contacts with the Chief Superintendent and apparently a man told them a few things, but they are willing to give what that fucking rat wants if he tells them the corrupt police's name.  _My_ name," Greg replied, trying to sound as cool as he could be.

"And this Dimmock man, you can trust him? Are you sure-"

"I'm damn sure, Johnny! Just a few more days and they will hang me like in the nineteenth century," the corrupt DI of the New Scotland Yard hissed angrily at his friend. He didn't mean to act like that but, considering the situation, it was difficult enough to remain calm, even without a friend questioning his trustworthiness.

"I think I'll leave the country. I can get both myself and my wife a fake but very good passport and go away to... I don't know, Fiji! We should all go there!" The silver-haired man unsuccessfully tried to sound funny and playful.

Harry opened a new bottle of beer and downed half its content in one go, not caring it was just nine in the morning. "We need to do something. And we need to do it right this time. John, call the posh pup."

"Sherlock? Why Sherlock? We need to make plans to escape from this, bloody hell, Harry-"

The Brains of the group stood up and took John's mobile phone. She scrolled through the contact list until she found the one she was looking for.

"Holmes?... Yeah, it's me, Harry Watson... The police knows... you'd better cooperate with us because-... Ah... Okay, we're on our way."

As soon as she hung up, Harry Watson grabbed three coats, one for her brother and the other for Greg and the last one for herself.  
"Let's go. The freak has a plan."

* * *

When Mrs. Adler-Holmes arrived at her house in Belgravia Street, quickly followed by her partner, lover and also assistant Sarah Sawyer, they found Sherlock and Molly reading financial papers, figuring out numbers and scribbling down notes on countless pieces of papers. The consulting accountant was looking out of the windows, his back turned toward Molly and the two women who recently returned from the country. It was a business trip if you were to ask, a romantic and sex-filled holiday if they were to tell you the truth.

"Uh, what a surprise, isn't it, Sarah? Look at this, my dear husband and sweet Miss Molly working together! Ah, I need to get my camera because this is something I've only seen twice or maybe three times in my life so far! What is it, Sherlock? Did that thief of yours reject you?" Irene mocked him while she sat in his husband's chair and spared a bored glance over the papers on the desk. There were several papers, pens and what it looked like a map of London. But her green eyes stopped at the sight of a will.

"Irene, how was Auckland? I imagine you both enjoyed the summer weather, though I have my doubts you hardly left the room, judging by the colour of your skin. Look at you both, as pale as any English person these days. That's really impressive," Sherlock shot back while turning around and looking at his wife and her assistant. Both were indeed as pale as always.

Sarah and Irene shared a look and both women sat down in front of Molly. The blonde assistant didn't lift her eyes from the papers on the desk, but kept working while waiting for more instructions from her employer.

"You're right, my dearest husband, as always. We hardly left the bed. But if this helps, we missed you." The powerful lawyer batted her long, rimmed eyelashes at her husband while she spoke. "We missed you too, Molly. In fact, we brought both of you nice presents. But I'd love to hear explanations about this," Irene said, pointing at the sheets of paper that lay in front of her.  
Even with just a quick glance, anyone could see what those sheets of paper meant. It was Sherlock Holmes' will, dealing with all his depositions over his large fortune and his properties.

"Do you remember that rainy Sunday afternoon when we first met, and you presented that contract to me and my faithful Molly? You assured me how clever you were. I think that if you're still that clever, you might understand what that paper means, Irene," Sherlock answered. He turned around and sat down next to Molly, facing his wife and her lover.

Irene sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to remain calm. "I'm a lawyer, Sherlock, and I am the best. With one little movement of my index finger I can have this country on its knees for me." She glared at her husband and pinned the paper to the table with her perfectly manicured nail. "I know what this means!" she hissed.  
But Sarah joined her partner. "Sherlock, does this new development have to do with the Irish?"

Sherlock was just about to answer her question, but Sherlock's mobile interrupted him. It was in his trousers pockets, but this time Molly remained in her place and Sherlock got it by himself. He frowned when he looked at John's name on the screen of his Smartphone.

"John? What's... Oh, Harriet Watson, what a pleasure... do they know?... 666 Belgravia Street. Bring your team. We have a plan." He hung up and sighed, staring at his phone.

"What's happening? Sherlock, you better tell me what's going on. I'm your wife, for goodness sake!" Irene said, her voice was threateningly low. She stood up from her place to be on the same height as her husband. Sherlock remained calm and snapped his long fingers. The deaf and mute maid appeared and with a quick movement of the consulting accountant's hands, she understood she had to prepare tea.

Sherlock ignored his wife while his fingers quickly created a text. After a couple of seconds his phone pinged and Sherlock smiled before tucking his device away. He faced his wife and said, "The Wild Bunch and your dear brother-in-law are on their way. We'd better prepare the living room, don't we? Didn't you tell me about this kind of things, Irene? That we needed to look presentable for the others? That we have a public, an audience to act for?" Sherlock said, while Molly started to clean the desk and order the papers in the folders filled with pictures of the Irish oligarch.

"I'm ordering you, don't make me use my riding crop!-" Irene Adler tried to threaten her husband, but Sherlock grabbed her left arm with more force than necessary and pushed her thin frame roughly against the nearest wall. The entire room was silent, and Sarah and Molly's eyes were fixed on them.

"Don't give me orders,  _wife_ " Sherlock whispered in his wife's ear, sending shivers down her spine. She had her green eyes almost closed, and she almost moaned, smelling that expensively tasty perfume he always used. Irene bit her bottom lip and looked at him, in those grey-ish eyes and without thinking about it twice, she kissed him, demanding. He kissed her back almost immediately. Her free hand traveled from his side to the nape of his head, combing her manicured fingers through those soft and dark curls. The consulting accountant let his hands slide down to his wife's small waist but when she tried to push things and raise a leg so their hips were in the same position, Sherlock stepped back and wiped her lipstick from his lips.

"Leave me alone," he said hoarsely, looking away from her.

Irene blinked and, with open mouth, scanned his face, looking for clues as to where it went wrong. She saw nothing, just blankness. She lowered her leg and slowly removed her hands from her husband. He stepped aside and watched her back when she left the room.

Sarah soon followed and closed the door behind her, after a nasty look at Sherlock. "You don't have to use her like that. You know how she feels about you,  _Sherlock_."

Molly continued tiding up the folders, the photographs and the papers when Sherlock Holmes hugged her from behind, placing his long hands gently on her stomach. She also felt his head rest on her thin shoulder and those soft curls caressing her porcelain neck. She sighed defeated. It had been days since he last touched her and she felt those days as if they were weeks, centuries, millennia. She didn't care anymore. She didn't care if her employer said he wasn't going to do this to her anymore, because she encouraged him to do the opposite. She even assured him she wasn't going to end up broken. But the days passed, and he had been cold.

Until today.

"You do count, Molly," Sherlock whispered in Molly's ear and she nodded, feeling how her employer's hands traveled up to her round breasts and then to the exposed skin of her neck. His long fingers tenderly brushed the skin of her throat, resting at her pulse point. "You'll always count to me. Say it, repeat it for me, Molly." His voice was hoarse, filled with unshed tears.

When Sherlock ordered her to repeat his words, Molly nodded. "I'll always count, Mr. Holmes."

Molly turned around to kiss him when the bell rang and he stepped away from her. The consulting accountant straightened his purple shirt and jacket and left the room to welcome John Watson.  _His_  John Watson, Molly realised once more.

* * *

The Holmes family, and the Watsons plus Greg Lestrade, forming the important part of the Wild Bunch, were in the same room and the air seemed to thicken. On the big, comfy sofa sat Sherlock Holmes and the powerful lawyer Irene Adler, and beside each of them were Sarah Sawyer and Molly Hopper, their faithful and beloved assistants. In front of them, John and Harry Watson and Greg Lestrade sat on chairs. In two of the other armchairs, Mycroft Holmes and Anthea took their place.

The silence was extremely awkward and comfortless when the maid placed a big tray with enough cups for all the guests, and cookies and cakes. She handed each of them a cup of tea and left the room.

Mycroft cleared his throat after sipping his tea. "I think we all know the reason why we are all here, why we had to meet-"

Harry cut him rudely off. "Get to the point, posh pup. Our heads are on the stakes thanks to that fucking informer and it's about hours the force finds out about us-"  
She was angry, but John placed a hand over hers to calm her and make her stop. Harry complied immediately as soon as she felt John's angry eyes on her.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. Please go on," John apologised, trying to be as polite as the situation allowed.

"Miss Watson, no need to feel anxious, I assure you. Indeed an informer or authority has sold not only your heads but my brother's name and my family's name as well. Two jobs, fourteen million Euros lost from the pockets of an Irish oligarch and now we are all facing death. How impressive is that?" Mycroft said.

Sherlock rolled his grey eyes. Irene nodded approvingly at her brother-in-law while she kept her green eyes focused on Harry Watson. The thief's sister felt the glance on her and responded by licking her lips suggestively.

"Let's do it this way; you tell us everything you know about this informer and then we will tell you what our position is in this big problem," the older Holmes suggested as he drank more of his tea.

Being the leader of his gang, John decided to speak first.

"A few months ago, Harry had been detained and accused of some things that don't matter now, but she was facing a five." Johnny Boy glanced at Irene Adler-Holmes who nodded at him, and he continued, "Mrs. Holmes here helped us with the papers and now, thanks to her, my sister is free of charges. She also facilitated us with this secret informer's depositions. All we have now are two initials that clearly stand for a pseudonym. Today, my mate Greg was told the Yard also has information about a corrupt cop in the criminal division. That's basically it," John explained calmly, looking deep in everyone's eyes while he spoke.

Mycroft nodded curtly. "Well, let's see. From what I know, because I myself had a quick glance at Miss Watson's files, this informer started selling your heads one by one. He started with Harriet Watson, revealing the physical and psychological abuse she inflicted on her previous partner Clara Richards to the police. My sister-in-law successfully managed to... lose the paperwork from the judges, so she's now free of charges." Mycroft Holmes looked at his sister-in-law for confirmation. Harry's eyes were fixed on the floor, embarrassed by her past problems caused by alcohol. John continued caressing her hand comfortingly.

"Then, the informer continued his game by selling my brother, Sherlock Holmes. Because I occupy a minor position in the British Government, I am privileged access to many departments of bureaucracy and so on. I managed to erase his name from the papers, files and several other places. Today, I was phoned by a friend from the very top of the New Scotland Yard. The same informer who sold Miss Watson and my brother's head apparently also sold DI Gregory Lestrade. He didn't give any names, yet. But he will, as soon as he gets all he needs to run away from this country. The police are willing to give him everything he asks for in exchange of your name, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said solemnly, looking at the silver-haired man. Greg silently nodded in agreement.

Mycroft smiled, and continued with his monologue. "And I assure you, it's only a matter of hours. Tomorrow morning, when you will arrive at your work, the same head of the entire police system of the United Kingdom will be waiting for you and he'll arrest you, personally. The next name that will be revealed is yours, Mister Watson. But he already gave enough information about you. My assistant Anthea traced a few phone calls, tell us, dear," Mycroft asked and Anthea typed on her phone immediately. Without looking at the thief, she started reading the information she got on her Smartphone monotonously.

"Name John Watson. Lives at 221B Baker Street. Arranges and plans jobs at 'Speedy's', a little cafe under his flat. He has been in touch with consulting accountant Sherlock Holmes several times. One at Baker Street to arrange the first robbery of seven million Euros at the English Bank. Two more meetings in an obscure little Italian restaurant called 'Angelo's' to make the delivery of Mister Holmes's twenty percent of the money and one more at 221B Baker Street, in which both engaged in sexual intercourse." When Anthea finished reading the file on her phone she sipped her tea.

Harry and Greg looked at John, surprised. Both Watson and Holmes were calm; not one single emotion danced over their faces, betraying their feelings.

* * *

After days of making plans and endless nights without sleep, James Moriarty had come to the idea, the picture of how he wanted to kill Sherlock Holmes.

It was going to be like a fairytale. Two men walking and exploring the Swiss mountains, looking for the perfect landscape, with white-topped mountains, and big, steep, dangerous cliffs. This time Moriarty was going to be the host, the local. He knew the waterfalls of central Switzerland like the palm of his own hand.

Those waterfalls couldn't withstand a comparison with the Niagara Falls in the States nor the Iguazu Falls in the deep jungle of Brazil-Argentina. These falls in Switzerland were smaller, much smaller than the previously mentioned ones. But it had sharp and dangerous rocks. The foundations were old enough and the erosion process had made wonderful things.

Jim was so proud of the place. Once he has pushed that six-foot-tall body to the cliff and after he has seen and heard how Sherlock Holmes body fell, hit the rocks and broke all his bones, he will buy that place. And the Irish had even thought about a name for the place.

"The Reichenbach-Holmes Falls, what do you think, Sebby?"

Sebastian Moran nodded in agreement. "It sounds lovely and also, a very suitable name, Mister Moriarty."

"Let's call Sherlock. I have to let him know about our trip to the Falls!" the oligarch sang happily. Finally, something fun was going to happen.

"How are you going to make him go, Sir?"

Moriarty smiled at his faithful assistant and caressed his cheek. "He'd better come with me... if he doesn't want his wifey Irene beheaded..." He made a movement with his index finger, sliding it over his neck slowly. "His loyal assistant Molly Hooper skinned, that ice man he's got as brother murdered and hanged on the Big Ben like a puppet and, here comes the best, Sebby, because if he doesn't come with me Johnny Boy, his sister and his friend are going to be killed in front of him. By me, in person." He cackled. "Oh, I am so clever, Sebby-boy!" The Irishman pulled out his phone and dialed Holmes's mobile number.

* * *

Mycroft still continued talking. "As you may have noticed, this informer gives precise information. But before we continue with this... rat as you call him, let's move to the other side. Molly, dear, can you please tell the Wild Bunch what my and your sources have found?" Mycroft asked his brother's assistant.

Molly nodded and took a deep breath. "Mister Mycroft Holmes and I have been searching information about this James Moriarty. He's an Irish oligarch millionaire. He's the owner of a fortune large enough to save most of Europe of bankruptcy, and he also owns several important buildings in Dublin. He has money stored on heavy bank accounts in the Caribbean and Switzerland. He arrived in London a year ago and since then, he's been one of my employer's most important clients. He's currently building a museum which, he assures, will be the biggest and the most important one in the world. He's even negotiating the purchase of several Da Vinci's, Rembrandt's, Picasso's and Van Gogh's paintings. But that's only the surface of his power, it's merely a cover. James Moriarty is the real owner of an extensive string of criminals who work all over Europe. That's the reason why he increases his personal fortune within every day... After the first robbery, his assistant Sebastian Moran planted tails on Mister Sherlock Holmes and on Mister Watson. After the second rob, he has collected enough prove to show his boss, and convince him that you were the thieves behind the fourteen million lost,"

"So, you're basically saying he's going to kill not only the pup but us as well?" Harry asked while changing her position on the sofa. John's grip on her hands was still tight. He tried to make her feel safer and comfortable, if it was possible to do so. **  
**

Molly nodded and looked at each member of the Wild Bunch. To say the least, they all looked hopeless except John. The leader of the gang looked as if he indeed felt secure and confident. As if he knew a good way to escape from that hell.

The Real Rocknrolla was getting ready.

Sherlock Holmes Smartphone rang inside his pocket and he grinned as soon as he read Moriarty's name on his tiny, flashing screen.

"James Moriarty, to what do I owe the pleasure?" His voice was happy and sounded unconcerned. John, however, could see the tense posture of the consulting analyst, and knew Sherlock was really, really concerned and worried.

Everyone else in the room was silent. All the people who were present, Mycroft, Sarah, Molly, Irene, Harry, Anthea, Greg and John, they all had their eyes focused on the tall man in the posh suit.

Sherlock smiled at the phone. "Sounds lovely. But I can't afford to leave London these da-"

Sherlock fell silent, he apparently was interrupted by the oligarch. Suddenly, his face changed and his eyes met John's. Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded to no one in particular. "It's settled then. Auf wiedersehen." His voice was strangely hoarse.

He stared at his phone as if he could hardly believe what was going on. "I'm going to Switzerland with Moriarty." That last word was a mere whisper, and Sherlock wished he could go back in time and stop what he had started.

* * *

The real RocknRolla would throw the dice. He would put all he owns over the table and he would play. Do you think he's going to win? Of course he will. Because the real Rocknrolla wants to live, and he also wants his posh pup to be alive.

The real Rocknrolla wants the fucking lot.


	14. What we wish

"I'm going to Switzerland with Moriarty." That last word was a mere whisper, and Sherlock wished he could go back in time and stop what he had started.

After a few seconds of silence, Mycroft Holmes assured the corrupt DI of The New Scotland Yard he could buy him some time. He was going to diminish the flow of information and certainly, they were going to have enough time until Sherlock meet Moriarty. Harriet Watson and Sherlock were clean and the only ones left were Greg and John.

Little information they could get out of Sherlock. The only thing the consulting accountant told them was that he'd been invited by the Irishman to Switzerland and that there were some bank accounts that needed to be managed and some financial plans to be sorted out.

Mycroft knew when his little brother was lying. Even more when he was hiding something from him. It was so obvious. Sherlock was so obvious sometimes. But maybe buying Greg Lestrade some time could be efficacious, why not, perfect for the plan.

Yes, there was a plan.

"I'm sorry to leave this enchanting meeting, but there is work to be done and I certainly cannot afford a day off." Mycroft stood up from his place on the armchair and waited for his assistant to get as ready as he was to leave. "You all will have some news from me in a couple of hours and you, Detective Inspector," The older Holmes pointed at him with his umbrella "I'll buy you some hours, some days indeed. Tomorrow, when you arrive at your work, act normally. Don't show any emotion nor any signals that may incriminate you."  
Half relieved, half surprised Greg nodded and Mycroft left the living room and then the Adler-Holmes house in silence.

When Sherlock stood up from his place it was quickly occupied by John's lesbian sister who had run to Irene and Sarah immediately, not caring about anyone's opinion at all. Molly, the faithful and patient Molly Hooper murmured something into her employer's ears and he nodded. Johnny Boy was there, still sitting in his original place and lots of things were on his mind. But one of them had a name, and it was Sherlock Holmes. John didn't like the way Sherlock touched people. He didn't like how he placed a hand over his wife's legs. He didn't like how he touched Molly's hands or neck. He didn't like how his fingers brushed the maid's when she handed him the cup of tea. Something inside John burned. It was a tiny little flame burning inside his stomach, stirring the darkest and most violent feelings inside him. He wanted to jump over Sherlock and claim how much  _his_ he was. He wanted to tell the entire world that the only consulting accountant was his and only his, that Sherlock had screamed his name lots of times just days before and that he was the only one who could save him and find a way out this awful hell with a distinctively characteristic Irish smell on it.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watson. There are a few things I need to discuss with you and Mr. Holmes about the security procedures from now on. Could you come with us to the office, please?" Molly asked him, smiling shyly, dragging him back to reality.

John nodded and then he found himself trailing after Sherlock Holmes, who walked in front of him with his back straight and his curly, dark-haired head high. Hell, that man  _had_ pride.

When they arrived at the famous office, Molly opened the door and gestured them to enter. "I can buy you ten minutes. Fifteen if I'm good. Irene is talking to Sarah and Harriet about the payment of the files and I think I can distract Greg Lestrade," Molly said, half smiling, half serious and closed the door behind her.

However, when she left, John was immediately slammed against the closed door. Sherlock Holmes was towering over him, kissing him passionately and fiercely, claiming his mouth like if his own life depended on it. The blonde thief gratefully took advantage of this, of course. He did not reject the kiss, but replied with the same strength and force. John's hands traveled to Sherlock's pale neck,caressing the white and soft skin there and then he moved upwards, feeling those dark curls and then massaging his scalp. The taller man moaned when he finally felt John's touch again. He had missed that so much. The thief's fingertips were so soft and so warm to the touch. His long hands travelled down to John's back, then to his arse and finally to his front part, to his lower part. Both men rubbed their erections together, fighting for who had the biggest and hardest erection when Sherlock suddenly broke the kiss.

"What's going on?" John asked, confused, straightening his clothes and looked at the taller man worriedly.

"We have sorted my, Harriet's and Greg's situations. My brother and I will take care of yours. In two days you will be able to walk freely around the streets of this city."

There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock looked at  _'The Falls'_ , the famous and marvelous painting John had given to him several days ago, after their first sexual encounter. It only took him seconds to know that the painting had been stolen from his original owner and if he wasn't wrong (he never was) it worth more than anyone could ever imagine.

But then John decided to ask what both men had wanted to ask. "What about us, Sherlock?"

"There's no  _us_ , John," Sherlock replied coolly, his gaze still fixed on  _'The Falls'_. His back was turned to the thief who began to feel more desperate every second.

"What do you mean there's no us?" John was not completely angry yet, but he was hurt. Even Sherlock who wasn't good with emotions knew and recognised the hints of bitterness and pain that mingled through his voice.

"First person of the plural in the English language, we. Subject, us. The patronizing  _we_ is used sometimes instead of 'you' to address a second party, hinting a facetious assurance that the one asked is not alone in his situation, that 'I am with you, we are in this together'. We may be involved in this together, John. But beyond this mess, there's no us. I have a wife and an appearance up, and you have a gang to take care of."

"Of course we are together in this but, contrary to what you claim, even beyond this fucking mess there's a place for us, Sherlock. There damn well is. And you can divorce Irene, or or... you are nothing more than her beard for fuck's sake!," John hissed, angry now.

Sherlock turned around and met his blue eyes. "We are both beards. Think of your gang, John, ple-"

John cut him off and pointed at him with a finger "Oh, I see. This is because I'm a thief, right?"

"No, Jo-"

"Don't you John me. I should've thought about this. How could I imagine the great, posh, clever Sherlock Holmes would like to have something with me? I'm just a thief," John said, trying his might to stop his tears from spilling. "You've made it so perfectly clear, Mr. Holmes. I apologise for my stupidi-"

"This has nothing to do with what you are or what you do, John. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

John stared at him, confused. "What do you mean? Friends protect people-  _I_ can protect you. My gang and I can protect you."

"You're the only thing I ever wanted, John. You're the only person I want and the only person I care about, but I can never be with you," the consulting accountant replied coldly.

"Why? I'm here, Sherlock, you can have me! I have enough money to last twenty lifetimes! We can run to some deserted island in the middle of nowhere and be together."

The taller man covered the painting with the dark fabric and faced John. "Is not that simple, John. I have to take care of Moriarty."

"We can kill him! I-I have Greg! He can trace his steps and we can kill him…"

"And then what?" Sherlock asked, half defeated by the stressful situation.

"And then, you and I run far away from here. We'll rock the world," John replied, half smiling.

Sherlock smiled, truly and heartily for the first time that day. And for the first time that day, he saw a silver lining through the dark cloudy sky that hung over his life. Everything was a fucking mess in which he had led lots of people only to play a little game with the wrong man in order to fight his boredom. He knew he had put everyone's lives on the stakes, but most of them were free now. It was only a matter of hours or, if he were lucky, days to meet the Irishman and save John. He knew the Irish oligarch was going to kill him. And if Moriarty knew he had been the brains behind the stolen fourteen million, he also knew John had been the working hands.

Holmes was going to save John. Even if it meant he had to  _fall._

"You better be going. It has been twelve minutes and I'm sure Harriet has settled the way of payment back to Irene and she's staying tonight. And Molly doesn't know how to handle men," Sherlock said while fixing his clothes from their previous passionate kiss.

John mimicked him in his actions. "Is a bit not good to tell me my sister is having sex tonight, and Molly doesn't know how to handle men? I thought she was good."

"She only knows how to handle  _me_."

With a quick but still soft kiss both men said their goodbyes and John walked back to the living room, where he found Molly chatting with Greg. The silver haired man had sparkles in his eyes, and the head of the gang smiled at Molly, who was blushing.

"Mr. Watson, did you sign the papers I left you?" Molly asked with a very well-hidden hint in her voice.

"Ah yes, of course. Shall we, Greg?" The blonde thief made a gesture with his head and the corrupt DI nodded, standing up and kissing Molly's hand.

"See you later, sweetie."

"Bye, Greg," Molly nodded, a blush painting her lovely cheeks.

Miss Hooper helped the maid with assembling the empty cups left in the living room. It was late, almost dinner time before she realised it was time to go home. Her soft, slender hands prepared all the files and her employer's will which she had been working on and when she hung her purse over her shoulder, a warm hand took hers.

"Thank you, Molly."

She turned around to see Sherlock Holmes. His face, as always, was expressionless. However, she knew he was being heartily honest and that he really meant it.  
She nodded "Mr. Holmes, if there's anything you need... you can have me. Well, not me- Yes. I mean-" She took a deep breath and continued as soon as she found the proper words to say "If there's anything you need, you can ask me and I'll be here for you."  
Sherlock nodded and she smiled back.

"I better be going. I need to classify these," Molly looked down at the files she was carrying "Oh, Irene asked me to tell you you're very much welcome to-"

A moan was heard from the room upstairs. Molly flushed from head to toes, but her employer didn't say anything.

However, as soon as Molly left the house, Sherlock fell down on the sofa and stuck three nicotine patches to his right forearm. Not paying any attention to the audible noises and moans coming from upstairs, the man owner of the highest intelligence in the whole country closed his eyes, and surrendered to sleep. Maybe when he was asleep he could find some peace before jumping off to meet his own death.

* * *

"Sebby, any news about my painting? I'm getting impatient. You know what happens when I get impatient," Jim Moriarty purred. Both Irishmen were having dinner in a posh restaurant somewhere in London. Although it was a very impolite thing to do, Sebastian Moran was furiously typing, without looking at Jim, on the keys of his Smartphone.

"Yes, I do, Sir. I have people after  _'The Falls'_. It looks like they have located it," Seb assured his employer with a bright smile.

James smiled. "And where is it, according to your  _sources_?"

Sebastian enjoyed every time, every moment he had to use the consulting accountant's name. He hated him so much, so much. He always knew Sherlock Holmes was a man who didn't deserve the trust his employer, the millionaire and criminal mastermind James Moriarty, had given to him. Of course not. So you wonder why he loved to pronounce his name even when he hated him? Easy. Moran had everything to make Sherlock Holmes disappear from the face of the Earth. He knew he had been the brains, the manipulator in the fourteen million Euros lost, and now he knew he had the painting.

"Excuse me Sir, but we are picking up Mister Sherlock Holmes in two days, aren't we?"

Moriarty nodded "Yes! Early, so we catch the first flight to Switzerland. I'm dying to eat some chocolate, aren't you excited?" the Irishman asked with a grin.

"Well, I guess my information can wait then," Seb said while he sipped more of his wine.

"What do you mean? Is this a surprise? If it is, I want a good one, Sebby," Moriarty warned his assistant, half serious, half joking.

Of course it was a going to be a very good, a very nice surprise indeed. Sebastian wanted to go inside with his employer, into Sherlock Holmes's house when they picked him up to go to Heathrow and then to Switzerland. He wanted to see Moriarty's face when he looked at his lucky painting,  _'The Falls'_ , hanging on one of the invidious Sherlock Holmes's walls. Oh yes, he was going to enjoy it.

Such a lovely show, filled to the brim with blood and revenge. Oh yes.

"Is indeed a good one, Mr. Moriarty. But you know how this works, if it a surprise I can't give too much away. I'll ruin it," Seb told his employer and the oligarch smiled.

"Ah! Let's change the subject. Have you hired the three snipers?"

Seb nodded "Of course. Should I keep the targets?"

James nodded "Yes. I want the three of them aiming directly to the faithful assistant, the hot wife-y and finally at the lover."

"Whatever you want, sir. Whatever you want," Sebastian Moran agreed as he made a few phone calls and arranged what his employer wanted.

Until Sherlock Holmes's body hit the sharp rocks of the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, three snipers were going to follow Molly, Irene and John's steps. If the consulting accountant decided to make a bad move, the snipers will kill the only people who really cared about him and the only people he cared about.

Sherlock Holmes had to die to pay for his mistake, and that mistake was playing with James Moriarty. He looked for excitement in all the wrong places.

However, the real Rocknrolla is still waiting. He's still waiting for the perfect moment to attack and beat the demon. Of course he will, because he rocks the fucking world.


	15. What we should not have done

"Sherlock, such a lovely painting and you hide it in here, covered with this dirty fabric? Haven't I taught you anything?" Irene appeared in his office, wearing nothing but her green lace pegnoir, the exact one he had given her once, many years ago, when they still were a newly wed couple, sharing the same bed.

Her hair was loose, and she wasn't wearing any make up which was as unusual as London without rain. The consulting accountant didn't respond to her jibe. He just kept his position in his chair and stared at her eyes. He tried to recall how many times had he looked at Irene and tried to fall for her since they got married. How many times he had possessed her thinking about anyone but her? How many times had he wished that the 'I'm your beard' contract between them could come to an end?

Infinite times.

There wasn't a single day that went by during which he didn't think about it. Sherlock loved her, he really did, but just not like that. Irene was clever, very clever. As clever as he was? I don't think so. But by far, she was cleverer than average. Not for nothing she was who she was, the most important and successful lawyer in the entire country. That's why he liked her, why he could endure having her around.

Irene truly cared about him. There was no doubt about that. She hadn't chosen him merely because of his fortune or because he was beautifully attractive with his cheekbones, looking all mysterious and handsome with his coat collar turned up. She had chosen him because she loved him. Irene loved Sherlock in a different way she loved Sarah. She cared for him to the point she would sleep with him even knowing he wasn't thinking about her but someone else. But she didn't care. She knew all his thoughts, all his feelings. She knew when he was angry, bored, and particularly when he was beaten.

"You're thinking about him," Irene said, examining her fingernails with a very cautious look. "You want this to be over, don't you, my dear Sherlock?"

She fell silent, waiting for Sherlock to answer her. But, upon seeing he wasn't going to, Irene continued in the same tone of voice.

"You know, Sherlock, you're not the only one who wants this to be over. Don't you think I want to walk free, holding Sarah's hand in front of the press? Do you believe I still want to go to parties and cocktails, pretending to be with you? Do you believe I want to live this fake life, Sherlock? Tell me, please, tell me."

Sherlock raised his eyes and fixated them on her. Irene was still looking serious, but her eyes were betraying her "I was certainly informed I have fullfilled most of your requests all these years, Irene. Public appearances, shared acquaintances, gifts, parties, sex... I gave you all you wanted."

"This is not about banalities, this is about us!" his fake wife shot back, tears of anger burning behind her eyes.

Sherlock took his time. He slowly rose from his chair and walked past Irene. A quick movement and the dark fabric fell to the floor.  _'The Falls'_ , as if it had a pair of eyes, was staring at Sherlock. It was a reminder of John. The painting was a reminder of that day in which they were together for the first time after years of being in business together and ignoring their feelings, ignoring how they felt towards each other. That painting was also a reminder about the life John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler wanted; a true life that seemed to be impossible in the fake world they had built together.

"You once told me I didn't have a heart, Irene. I think I left it behind, and now I can't find it. We both made choices we can't regret now. Our deep desire to be successful and brilliant in a world full of grey and boring people changed us in what we are now; two people in love with the same sex. You want Sarah to be your wife and have kids. You want to stop posing with your fake husband for the pre -"

Irene took a deep breath and cut him off. "You do have a heart, Sherlock. The only thing that stops you from feeling it beating inside you is your brain. You have to let your heart rule your mind for once. Stop trying to feel with your brain! Go and take John. Go and make love to him. Love  _him_. Go, Sherlock." Her last words were a mere whisper. She stood up and placed herself between his long arms.

To Irene's surprise, he hugged her back. "Once I leave to Switzerland, everything will be solved. After my return, I will follow your advice, Miss Adler."

"You'd better be back soon, I will miss you, my dear husband. And bring some chocolates," Irene said, kissing her husband's cheek.

"How about the diet?"

She smiled. "Sarah can help me to burn those calories. Now, let's move this lovely painting to the living room. I want everyone to see the good taste my husband has for art."

* * *

John locked himself inside his flat until Mycroft sent him the information. The older Holmes assured him and Greg he had successfully stopped the flow of information about Greg Lestrade's share in the fourteen-million-euros robbery with the Wild Bunch. So finally, they all were clean, free to walk around the streets and be like anyone else; free.

But something caught John's eye.

"What do you know about Sally and Anderson?" the head of the gang asked Greg while they were sipping from some excellent tea at Speedy's, their little house of crime.

"Haven't seen them. Sally called me yesterday, just to update me on her movements. She said something about Manchester, can't remember. Why?"

John shook his head. "'M just curious. But... Have you noted that the fucking informer only sold  _our_ heads?"

"Well, I have thought about it, of course. But we're old, Johnny Boy. They only joined us a few months ago, almost half a year I think. And they only sell their seven percent stronger, they are not deep into us yet, so to speak," the corrupt DI replied, thinking hard.

There was a little nagging voice, very deep inside John Watson's mind telling him something. There had to be something he knew, or at least something he suspected, but he couldn't just lay his finger on it just yet. He had a very bad feeling inside his chest, and the idea of betrayal inside his own gang made him feel nauseous and nervous.

If only he knew what would happen now.

* * *

"We are here, Sir," the driver of the limousine murmured to his employer James Moriarty as soon as he stopped the car in front of the beautiful and charming house in the most posh neighbourhood in London.

The Irish leaned forward to take a better look of the house in front of him. His hands clasped together over his lap and then he adjusted his tie. Several guards on black suits and matching sunglasses were standing in front of the residence. They were securely armed, of course.

"How do I look?" the Irishman asked with a big grin splashed on his face.

Sebastian, his faithful assistant, glanced him appreciatively up and down, nodding eagerly. "Perfect, Sir. Shall I go inside with you? It seems he already knows you are coming."

The millionaire shook his head. "No dear, you shall stay here and wait. I'll call you if I need you. Though, I think I won't, I'm only picking him up. The knives, bullets and blood can wait until we arrive in Switzerland -"

"But Sir-"

Jim Moriarty silenced him by placing his slender index finger over Moran's lips. "Hush, Sebby. Everything is going to be alright. Sit here and wait. If I need you, I'll let you know."

He didn't have a choice so Sebastian clenched his teeth and did as he was told. This ruined his surprise. He wanted to see his employer's face as he looked at  _'The Falls'_ hanging on one of Sherlock Holmes' walls. The painting, Moriarty's lucky painting, had been stolen by the Wild Bunch and then John Watson, their leader, had given it to Sherlock Holmes.

However, being the faithful and perfect person assistant he was, Sebastian Moran put on his black leather gloves and waited for his employer to make the decisive phone call, asking him to come inside. And we all know what that means, right? A single phone call and  _'Please Sebastian, join us'_ was enough to make anyone understand James Moriarty wanted Sebastian to kill Sherlock Holmes.

Sebastian looked at his employer ringing the bell and then waiting outside 666 Belgravia Street. He could only smile openly, and wait for him to make the phone call.

_**Minutes Earlier...** _

"Look how pretty it looks here," Irene said, stepping back with her fake husband to admire the beautiful and artistic painting, hanging on their living room wall. "I like it. Where did you get it?"

"It was a present," Sherlock admitted, staring at the painting in front of them, lost in his thoughts.

"Oh, a present from the lover? I like him. Once you're back from Switzerland we can arrange a little party. You know, Sarah, me, you and him," She winked at him.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't share."

"Sherlock dear, there's no need to be so rude. Remember I shared Sarah with you every time you needed a good shag. You owe me."

"Really? Well, you're really providing me food for thought," Sherlock said with a sigh when he felt his mobile ringing inside his trousers pockets.

"Think about it and then let us know. Now, I'm going upstairs, can't wear this the whole day, can I?"

The consulting accountant ignored both the phone call and his wife when he heard the bell ringing. It was Molly.

"Good morning, Sir," were Molly first words as soon as he opened the front door to let her in.

His Smarthphone rang once again, but he kept ignoring it.

"Do you want me to...?" Molly asked with a shy smile, but Sherlock shook his head. "We have talked about this, Molly. The physical contact will be stringed -"

But Molly cut him off, "I mean that I can answer for you if you don't want to speak to whoever is calling."

The consulting accountant handed her his phone and she answered while they walked their way to the office. Sherlock ignored the panicked look on her face. Instead, he took his black pen with his name engraved on it, present from his wife, and signed all the papers Molly classified. His will, some depositions and a few 'poems' to entertain his brother-

"Mr. Holmes, your brother -"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want to talk to him. Tell him he can stop harassing me with his -"

Molly pressed the speakerphone button and placed the phone on the desk, in front of her employer.

 _"Sherlock, the Irish planted gunmen on Molly Hopper, Irene Adler and John Watson. My CCTV footage discovered them. They have snipers, Sherlock."_ The consulting accountant caught the warning and the thin layer of panic in his brother's normally composed voice.

"Where is he?"

_"In his Rolls Royce. They are going for you, brother. My sources have already alerted the Wild Bunch. Also, we have several security systems and guards safeguarding my office, our manor, two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street. They should be at your front door by now."_

The young Holmes shook his head, dismissing his brother's safety measures. "Guards won't stop him from taking me. I'm going -"

_"You're not going, Sherlock. Haven't I given you enough information about him? He's a criminal mastermind, you played with him, you made a fool of him, he will kill you."_

When two tears fell on the desk, Sherlock looked up to his assistant. The faithful, sweet and patient Molly was crying. And believe it or not, that's what made Sherlock Holmes understand he had been beaten. He had played with the wrong man the wrong game. And now it was too late to regret it.

"It has been decided when I started playing. Not going isn't an option any more, I have to go! You already said it yourself; there are gunmen on Molly, Irene and John. If I don't go, they die!" Sherlock looked defeated when he finished the phone call. At that moment, the door bell rang again.

Looking at the security system, Sherlock and Molly saw the Irish waiting outside his house, with a big smile and adjusting his tie.

* * *

"Um, excuse me, you are...?"

Three insanely tall men in identical black suits and matching sunglasses were standing in front of John's door. Just after he left Speedy's, ready to head to his flat and have a nice lunch, Mrs. Hudson, his landlady and the owner of his little house of crime, warned him about the three new guests near the door.

"Security guards. We have been ordered by Mister Mycroft Holmes to stay here and protect you, Mister Watson," one of the guards replied with forced politeness. He carried a headphone while the other two were talking using a strange piece of device.

"Well, tell Mycroft that if he wants to play fucking Men in Black he can sho -"

"Mister Watson, we are here to protect you from James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran; two highly dangerous criminals. We have been informed a sniper is tracking you down. We are missing the  _red dot_." The voice of the man in black was weary, as if he was tired of explaining already.

John frowned. He knew this kind of slang, this kind of vocabulary. If Moriarty and his assistant had planted a sniper on him, it meant they were on their way to catch Sherlock.

"They are going for Sherlock... I need to go to there," Johnny Boy murmured, already taking out his phone, speed-dialling Greg's number.

* * *

"Sir-"

Sherlock glanced at Molly as he put on his dark coat. "Listen carefully, Molly. I need you to follow my instructions after the letter."

The blonde woman nodded. It was obvious she was fighting back her honest tears and sobs while she listened to his calm, determined yet sad voice. "I already signed all the papers you classified for me. Everyone is protected. You'll talk to Irene and Sarah, explain everything to them and don't leave this house, not until Mycroft orders you to. Do you understand?"

Molly nodded again and clung to her employer, breaking all the new rules they had both agreed to a few days ago. Sherlock closed his eyes and kissed the top of her blonde hair. He inhaled deeply, breathing her sweet scent. "You will all be fine, I promise." It sounded as if he was trying to reassure himself and not Molly.

It was too late to do something else when Sherlock opened the front door and James Moriarty smiled at him.

It was a lot too late to regret things when Sherlock Holmes, consulting accountant, saw James Moriarty fix his Ray Ban glassed eyes on the picture hanging on his wall, just behind him.

It was also too late to realise James Moriarty was looking directly at the painting John had given him, and see, deduce, it was James Moriarty's lucky painting.

_Oh Sherlock. Where's the RocknRolla right now?_


	16. What we did

Whilst Sherlock Holmes and the people he really cared for were facing death itself, embodied as an Irish man named James Moriarty, Sally Donovan and the idiot, rat faced man, better known as Anderson, were happily and mockingly counting the large amount of money on their bed.

Nasty, filthy bastards.

"We have enough money to live and do nothing, Sally. See? I told you that Johnny Boy was a piece of cake," said Anderson to his crime and sex partner Sally, while she nodded with a grin. "And that Sherlock  _Stupid_  Holmes is also paying. He had it coming, to make me look like a fool."

Anderson's last words were full of venom and hatred. He hated Sherlock Holmes, the consulting accountant, so much it burnt him. He didn't really care if the man had a wife, or even if he would have had a son or anything to look after, Anderson wanted Sherlock to be as dead as Hitler, so to speak. No one ever insulted him, or his woman, Sally, or his seven percent stronger, and lived.

"I still don't see why you had to sold Johnny Boy and Lestrade too. I like 'em," Sally said, still counting the money.

Anderson chuckled. "Don't be stupid. Watson might have accepted us in the gang, but he and Lestrade and don't forget that stupid drinker Harry, they were taking most of the money. They weren't even giving us enough jobs!"

"I still believe you could have only sold Holmes. That's a bastard, I'll tell ya."

"Yes, and if I have only sold Holmes, what of it? Those Irish wanted the handy work as well, Holmes only gave the information," Anderson explained.

"But now with the Watsons and Lestrade out of the way, we can rock this city."

Anderson's eyes were shining; he was like a little boy on Christmas morning after opening all the presents. He was so happy, so deeply sunk into his own and little stupid world in which he believed everything was perfect until he felt a burning pain against the back of his head.

The last thing he saw was Sally's panicking face before everything went black.

"Mr. Watson, we have strict orders. We can't let you go, you shall stay here until Mr. Mycroft Holmes -" John shoved one of the men in black out of his way, and raised his hand in the air, trying to hail a cab.

"I don't give a fuck about Mycroft Holmes. Tell him to -"

John's mobile went off and as soon as he glanced at the screen he picked up the call. "I'm on my way to Sherlock's and you're not -"

_"Tell my men to_ _come_ _with you. I trust you already have your gun secured to your belt, Mr. Watson."_

"Where's the Irish?"

_"Now he's heading to my brother's house. I'm sending security_ _,_ _and trained men. This should paralyze and stop James Moriarty, but I'm afraid it won't happen as I wish to."_

John frowned and pressed the phone close to his ear. "What do you mean it won't happen? You're sending thousands of men! It's thousands against one -"

_"James Moriarty is big. His_ _spider web_ _is_ _big, almost_ _touching my grounds. There are snipers not only aiming at you, but_ _also_ _at Irene Adler and Molly Hooper. And I believe there are people in my office. If Sherlock doesn't die, everyone else will."_

The blonde thief shook his head. "You know what? I don't care. I'm going now and nothing will fucking stop me, I'll save Sherlock."

As soon as he had mentioned the consulting accountant's name, John pressed the red button and got into a cab, the three men in black following him as one.

* * *

"Moriarty, I wasn't expecting you to come so early. Please, come in, come in. I think kettle just boiled," Sherlock said, successfully faking his already annoyed tone of voice, covering with politeness, the very same politeness he had learned from his mother and his fake wife. Sherlock glanced at the street behind his front door. There was Moriarty's familiar Rolls Royce and he could even see Sebastian Moran inside, wearing dark sun glasses. "We can invite Sebastian as well, and have a join breakfast with my Molly. It'll be fun."

Moriarty only shook his head and stepped in. His mouth was half open, and he managed to remove his dark Ray Ban from his eyes. The Irish walked until he was standing just in front of 'The Falls'. His lucky painting, the same one which had been stolen from his wall was now hanging on his favourite consulting accountant's wall.

Dear me, dear me.

"But look at this beautiful piece of art! Dear me, Mr. Holmes, I had always known everything about the people who works for  _and_  with me, but this -you can consider it little- but to me it's a big detail about you... I never knew you liked paintings just like I do!" Moriarty exclaimed, clasping his hands together.

Sherlock gave Molly a look. He tilted his head and shrugged. "It's beautiful indeed, a little thing my wife Irene got for our house. She loves art as well," Sherlock lied smoothly.

The Irish removed his mobile from his pocket and dialed  _the_  number.

"Sebby, can you join us, please?" he asked before placing his phone back into his pocket. "I believe, my dear Sherlock, we can have that breakfast all together, don't you think so?"

* * *

Sebby waited. Oh god, he was getting impatient.

But let's say God heard his pleading, because as soon as he glanced at his mobile to check if he had any signal, his boss made the call.

_"Sebby, can you join us, please?"_

"Of course, Sir."

That was all his reply. Sebby straightened his leather black gloves and then proceeded to make one last phone call to make himself sure the rats were in their destiny.

"Got them?"

_"Yes, Sir. Sally Donovan and_ _that_ _Anderson man are already sleeping."_

"Well done, well done."

Sebastian Moran gave the driver the last directions and left the posh Rolls Royce, property of James Moriarty, and walked to Sherlock Holmes's door, feeling those men in black's eyes on him, not caring at all.

No one was going to pull a gun in front of them. If Sherlock Holmes though he was clever, he was so, so, wrong.

* * *

John jumped out of the cab and threw all the money he had on his pockets to the cabbie and ran to the Holmes' door. The three men in black were behind him, covering his back with their guns in their hands. They immediately were stopped by the other men on the door. They all looked like fucking clones, Johnny-Boy had the clearance of mind to think.

"The Irish are in. We got a phone call from D.I. Gregory Lestrade. The police will secure the area within minutes," one of the men at Sherlock's door told John.

"I'm going in, as soon as you hear a gunshot, come in and fucking kill him if I haven't done so myself," John growled checking on his gun, getting ready to get in.

He put a hand on the door handle and stepped in.

**_Minutes before..._ **

"Sherlock, darling, can you - Oh! Mister Moriarty, what a pleasure. Sherlock didn't tell me you were coming for breakfast," Irene said. She was impeccably dressed, wearing one of those expensive dresses she loved and her Louboutin high heels. Red lipstick and a very nice hairdo fully completed the picture.

Moriarty smiled politely as he took her hand and kissed it. "No, certainly he didn't because it was a surprise! I was coming to pick him up and head to Switzerland, business you see, but I think business can wait, can't they, Sherlock?" The Irishman smiled, Sherlock nodded. Irene looked at him and understood. Next to him was Molly, who was terribly nervous and scared.

Today was  _the_  day.

"What an awful man I am! Sebastian Moran, my assistant. Sebby, she's Mrs. Holmes,"

Irene smiled tightly and Sebastian removed his dark glasses, revealing his dark and poisonous eyes, shaking Irene's manicured, slender hand.

The five of them sat down in the living room with a tray full of cups, biscuits, toast and orange juice for all. Moriarty was sitting next to Sebastian, both in front of Sherlock and Irene. Molly was sitting in a separate armchair, although next to her employer. From Moriarty's place, he could see the painting hanging on the wall. His painting,  _'The Falls'_.

"About the bank accounts -"

"The bank accounts can wait, Sherlock. Tell me, did you enjoy it?" Jim asked while he sipped more of his tea.

Sherlock frowned. "Enjoy what?"

"Stealing my money. Did you enjoy it?"

Sherlock's eyes never revealed the panic he was suppressing. But both Molly and Irene almost dropped their cups.

"Tell me, that purple, magnificent shirt you're wearing, did you buy it with my money? Don't be shy." Sebastian smirked, showing his too-straight teeth.

"No."

"Pity! I'd have loved to hear you, Sherlock Holmes, admitting you got that tight shirt using my money," the Irish said, placing his cup back to the saucer.

"You knew."

Jim nodded, calmly. "Once, and I was able to forgive you. Twice, well... twice you tried to make a fool of me, and that,  _Sherlock_...  _that_  I do not forgive." The Irish placed special emphasis on Sherlock's name.

Irene sat forward in her chair. "We can return all the money if that's what you -"

But James cut Irene off. "I don't want the money back, fake wife."

Irene looked at him with undiluted fear in her beautiful eyes.

"What I want is teaching you the lesson," the consulting criminal continued as if no one had interrupted.

Sherlock raised his voice just a bit. " _You_  only want  _me_ , don't threaten my wi-"

"Oh, so she's your wife now? Please, you can do better than that! I've seen so many things in my life, but a gay and a lesbian married because of the money, the position? C'mon!" James laughed humorlessly, pointing at Irene. "You, Miss Irene Adler, live with your girlfriend, while Sherly here likes to touch and fuck little Molly, but that's not all, is it, Sherlock? Does she know you like  _cock_? That you like to be fucked by that thief, John Watson, that you like to take it up the arse? You dirty, filthy -"

James was happily insulting Sherlock, fully enjoying himself, even more so when Irene stood up and slapped him hard across the face. She was furious, her green eyes had tears of anger in them. Moriarty's cheek stung and turned a lovely bright red. He placed a cool hand on the new bruise and smiled.

"Touched a nerve, haven't I? Oh I see, you  _love_  him."

Irene shook her head and said with shaking voice, "You're leaving my house right now or I'm calling the police -"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mrs. Holmes," Sebastian said, coolly, standing up from his place and taking a gun from his jacket. Sherlock stood up and tried to get to him when James took a gun and aimed it at Molly.

"Now, you two are going to do exactly as you're told or little Molly dies. Don't you dare move a finger, because I'll paint your precious and posh walls with her brains. Am I clear, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes?"

Both nodded, defeated and sat back.

Sebastian walked until he was close to Irene and sat next to her. The silence in the room was thick, until he placed a hand over her knee and started going further, touching and caressing Irene's tights with his cold and calloused hands. Irene jumped and tried to make him stop, but Moriarty pointed a gun at Molly's head.

"Hush, darling. Do as Sebby says!" Moriarty sang. "Then I can have some fun with Sherly here. Tell me, Sherlock, how do you want me to take you? Slow? Rough? Like Johnny Boy did, perhaps?"

Moriarty moved closer and placed a hand over Sherlock's crotch, massaging the flaccid flesh through the expensive trousers. Sherlock wasn't hard in the slightest, and he kept his position, looking straight into James's dark eyes. His expressionless look in his eyes made Moriarty fuming.  
Sherlock knew this was not meant to happen. He was supposed to be flying to Switzerland, falling that cliff and dying as soon as his bones met those sharp rocks. Molly, Irene, John, even Mycroft would be alright, safe. Happy.  
But this time even Sherlock Holmes and his clever brain knew there was no possible way they could be safe after this. At least Sarah was not in the house -

Moriarty ripped the first three buttons of his purple shirt and licked at the visible skin, moaning obscenely loud.

Dirty bastard.

"Will that make you hard enough for me, Sherlock? Or shall I give you some show? Seb, do it," said Moriarty while he kept pointing at Molly with his gun and with his other hand, he waved at Sebastian Moran to carry on with their plans.

The assistant started undoing Irene's dress, and when she tried to fight him Jim threatened her showing her his finger on the trigger, while Molly's eyes were wide as saucers.

"Now Sebby here will fuck Irene and you, Sherlock dear, are going to watch," Jim said, waving the gun in front of Molly's face carelessly. The blonde assistant was sobbing and crying silently. Her nails were practically digging into the leather of the chair and she was trembling.

_Where's the RocknRolla now?_

When Sebastian Moran grabbed Irene's thighs and moved his hand further between her legs, Irene cried and tried to fight him back. Sebastian was strong, however, and she hardly succeeded. Eventually, Sebastian undressed her completely and placed her on the soft red carpet of the living room, wearing her bra and knickers only, crying and sobbing uncontrollably while Sebastian got ready to penetrate her. Sherlock kept his position, on the sofa, with his grey eyes shut, thinking of a way to get them out of this hell.

Moran undid his trousers' zip and before he was able to go further and abuse Irene, Sherlock leapt from his chair, attacking James. He hit his crotch with his elbow and darted forwards until he could punch Sebastian in the face. The Irish assistant fell to the floor and a river of his blood was decorating his face. Sherlock had broken his nose with his knuckles.

"You fucking bastard!" Sebastian hissed, fuming, as he sat back and tried to stop the nosebleed.

James was curled into a ball in the floor, still trying to recover himself when Molly took over his gun. Her hands were shaking as she kicked Sebastian's gun out of his reach.

Irene hugged Sherlock and continued crying desperately.

"It's OK. Everything is going to be OK. I won't let anyone hurt you," Sherlock mumbled soothingly, trying to make her feel better "Molly, give me the gun -"

Before Sherlock was able to say something else, James pushed Molly aside, and she fell to the floor with a shriek, dropping the gun.

Moriarty stood up. "Well, that's not fair play, Sherlock. I am disappointed,"

"Don't you dare to lay a finger on them. This is between  _you_  and  _me_."

Sebastian punched Sherlock hard in the face and the consulting accountant toppled to the floor.

"Leave it, Seb. I think Sherly wants to feel a bit of action. You were getting bored watching, weren't you?" Moriarty asked as he handed Sebastian the gun and started undoing his tie. "It looks like now we have to change the plans. I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to enjoy it. I'm going to make you come and I'm going to make you scream my name like the filthy whore you are while Irene and Molly watch. Do you like that, Sherlock?"

Sebastian smiled and, aiming a gun at both women, he made them sat on the sofa.

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just kept his vulnerable position on the floor, looking at Moriarty and desperately trying to think of a way to get the hell out of there. Preferably unharmed.

James fell to his knees as he undid his trousers. His long slender fingers fumbled with Sherlock's belt and zip and he tugged the trousers down. An evil grin appeared on Jim's face as he grabbed at Sherlock, watching Sherlock intently. "Now little Molly and the fakey wifey are going to watch what you like -"

There was a sound of a door violently open and someone getting inside the house. From their place, the Irish, Molly, Irene and Sherlock were able to see who it was.

Sherlock smiled, relief spreading his face. He didn't have to think of a way to escape after all.

"Drop the guns and put your hands in the air where I can see them,  _NOW_!"

There was John, with a gun in his hands and a special, dangerous, gleam on his blue eyes.

_The RocknRolla has arrived._


	17. What we can do

"Drop the guns and put your hands in the air where I can see them,  _NOW_!"

There was John, with a gun in his hand and a special, dangerous gleam on his blue eyes.

_The RocknRolla has arrived._

"My, my, my," Jim said, a hand on his chest and a gun pointing at the two women sitting together on the sofa. "The knight in the shining armour and the damsel in distress."

"Drop the guns and put your hands in the air where I can see them," John repeated, angrily. " _NOW!_ "

Sebby took two steps forward. "Or what? What are you gonna do, thief?"

John's eyes scanned the scene. Molly and Irene were sitting together on the sofa. Molly was sobbing heavily while Irene merely looked down at the floor, tears rolling down her face. She was trembling and John noticed she was wearing nothing but her underwear. Her dress was on the floor - it was clear they tried to hurt her.

On the floor was Sherlock, his grey eyes John loved so much were on his, asking for help but at the same time begging him to go and save his own life.

"I'm going to fucking kill you."

"Will you? You, a little rat will kill me?" Jim asked, mockingly. " _Please_ , be my guest." Before John could move, Sebby handed Jim a phone. "Now, we only need one last person to join the show," Jim held the phone for John to look at. "Miss Watson, are you there?"

"John? John, please do as they tell you, there gonna fucking kill us!"

John's eyes fell on the screen. Harry and Greg were tied to a chair and there were men pointing their guns to their heads. There were men at Baker Street and Harry and Greg, his sister and his best friend were in danger.

"Do as the sister says, Johnny boy. If you want her and that corrupt Detective Inspector to live... you'll do as you're told, all right, Johnny boy?"

The thief had no other choice but to drop his gun.

Jim smiled. "That's a good boy. Now, what should we do, uh?" the Irish looked at every single one of his victims: Sherlock, Molly, Irene and John. "Drink some tea? An orgy maybe? We both know you quite like that, don't you, Mr and Mrs Holmes?"

"This is between you and me, Jim," Sherlock spat angrily from his place. "Do not -"

"I'm the one setting the rules here, darling," Jim giggled. "You liked messing around with my money? Now it is time to pay the consequences."

"We can give you the money back -" Irene tried to say but soon Jim slapped hard across the face.

Jim laughed mischievously and Sherlock almost punched him when Jim pointed the gun at Molly. "Easy peasy."

"Don't you dare," Sherlock said between clenched teeth. "Don't you dare to lay a finger on her!"

"Or what?" Jim sang. "Oh, I see. You really like her, don't you?"

"Shut up!"

Jim sat on the posh, leather armchair and ran his fingers all over the soft material. "You know, Sherlock, I really liked you. A top consulting accountant, the only one in the world, married to a top barrister, no children, no pets. I often asked myself..." Jim smiled. "I asked myself how do you fake an entire life for years and years. Don't you get tired of it?"

"You do know," Sherlock said. "You're just like me."

"You know who I am, Sherlock?"

"James Moriarty, you're not a simple investor, a business man as you make everyone believe," Sherlock chuckled. "You're a criminal mastermind with thousands of threads all around Europe. You know how to make every single one of them dance."

Jim clapped. "Brilliant. Excellent. Top marks."

"You know absolutely nothing about us."

"There you're wrong, Sherlock," Jim licked his own lips and leaned forward, resting his palms on his thighs. "I know about the little orgies you and your wife organise for your wedding anniversaries. I know about Irene and Sarah. I know about you and Molly. And," the Irish smiled at John. "I know about you and little Johnny-boy here." Then, Jim turned to Irene. "Do you know he has a copy of the contract you both signed when you got married and a divorce petition form? Sherly wants to run away with Johnny-boy."

Irene blinked and more tears rolled down her face.

John looked up and Sherlock's hands curled into fists.

"You're both quite twisted, Mr and Mrs Holmes. Sherlock thinks Molly fights him every time he abuses her, but she actually likes it," Jim almost sang. "And you, Irene dear, you want Sherlock more than anything in the world but he likes to take cock up the arse."

"Shut up," Sherlock cut him off.

But Jim was far from shutting the fuck up. "You like your PA's to submit to you because you can't submit to your true desires."

"Shut up."

"I heard you two broke the bed the first time you shagged," Jim laughed. "My God, and now you two barely look at each other now. Ah," Jim looked atthe man and the woman coming from upstairs. "Here you are. Took your time."

A man came downstairs with Sarah. He was holding a gun and he was pointing at her head. "Sir."

Everyone's eyes were on her. She was naked, completely naked and her body was covered in bruises. Her green eyes were full of tears and the man pointing the gun at her head smiled dangerously.

He had abused her.

Irene felt her heart sinking.

Everyone knew how important Sarah was to Irene. Sarah was the woman Irene loved, she was more than her PA, that smartly dressed woman who knew the password code to Irene's phone. Sarah was the woman who slept next to Irene every night and sometimes made Sherlock feel better.

Sherlock looked away when he spotted bruises around her hips and legs. He was also very fond of Sarah. She was the only one who could keep Irene calm and sane. Sarah was who approached him the night he and Irene met and told him she was waiting for him in the room 207. They shagged like wild animals that night, broke the bed and the following morning they were already contemplating the idea of getting married for the sake of appearances and because it was quite convenient that the man who made himself sure important men like the PM, famous investors, jet set men and even a prince's finances were safe and the woman who was no one but the royals' lawyer got married.

The press loved them.

But no one knew that the two people standing behind them, holding their phones, making themselves sure Irene's dress was OK and that Sherlock's tie matched his wife's dress, Molly and Sarah, were more than simple PA's.

Their driver took them all back home after a party and Sarah and Irene would fuck right there whilst Sherlock liked to touch little Molly while she read him all his text messages.

"Got the little tart? Good."

"Made her scream my name."

Irene looked at Sherlock.

No. Sherlock tried to stop her but he couldn't. "Vatican cameos!"

With a sudden movement John hit Sebby on the crotch. Sherlock did the same with Jim and Irene jumped to the man on Sarah.

"Irene!"

Irene and the man rolled on the floor. Irene managed to take the gun off his hands but the man was strong.

Before Sherlock or John could help, someone pulled the trigger and Sarah fell to the floor, dead.

There was a pool of blood. And Irene couldn't help but cry.


	18. What we can't do

Sherlock, Irene and Jim were sitting together in a car. John, Molly and Sebastian were in another.

"Glad you got rid of her," Jim smiled at Irene, who was silently crying, her green eyes looking away. "Was a bit useless, wasn't she?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Shut up."

In the struggle, Irene pulled the trigger and shot Sarah. She never meant to, no. She meant to shot the man who had abused her, who had hurt her Sarah.

The moment Sarah fell to the floor dead, Irene cried and shouted. She tried to punch the other man, Sebastian, James. Sherlock wrapped her with his long coat and folded his long around her. He knew how much Irene loved Sarah.

Sarah was more than a simple PA. Sarah was Irene's best friend, lover, girlfriend, partner. Both dreamt of marrying, having children together and going out everywhere they wanted to holding hands and not worrying about what people said.

But dreams were dreams.

Irene was married to Sherlock and she was very deep into a marriage of convenience. It was convenient for both parties. Both were homosexuals, both fancied people of the same gender and yet they loved each other too. Sherlock was aware of Irene's feelings for him. Even though Irene loved Sarah, she also loved Sherlock.

And Sherlock loved John. He, as Irene, as dreams of breaking that marriage of convenience and going far away. Sherlock dreamt of living in a modest place, not in the posh house he and Irene owned. Sherlock wished he could live the life he wanted.

Irene took Sherlock's hand and they laced their fingers.

Sherlock glanced at her wedding ring. Polished. She cared. She had always cared.

"Irene, I'll fix this."

She shook her head in disbelief. "She was everything I had."

"Irene -"

"She said you weren't good to her."

Sherlock looked into Irene's crying eyes. "Well, she liked messing with my bed."

Irene half smiled. "She liked you, you know."

"She loved you."

They arrived at one of Moriarty's buildings. It was plain day but there were no workers, no architects, no one. Just James Moriarty, his faithful assistant Sebastian Moran, two henchmen and the victims: Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler-Holmes, Molly Hooper and John Watson.

_The RocknRolla had to do something now._

"You like tall buildings, don't you?" James asked as he walked towards the stairs and gestures his men to take his victims close to him. "I owe you a fall, Sherlock."

"This is between  _you_  and  _me_." Sherlock said firmly.

John took a step forward. "And me."

"My, my. Look at the thief," James almost sang. "What about you wifey, don't you feel overshadowed?"

"You're disgusting," Irene spat angrily.

James fake a hurt look. "Me? I'm not the one who has just killed his pet, you know."

"How dare you!"

Irene jumped over Moriarty and tried to punch him when Sebastian grabbed her by her arms and pulled her off his employer. "Calm down, bitch."

"Come on, Sherlock. We have things to sort out," James gestured Sherlock to follow him upstairs. "You'd like to say good bye to your little friends here."

Sherlock knew he was going to die. He knew was was upstairs, on the rooftop. He also realised messing with James Moriarty was the worst thing he could have ever done. Damn, Mycroft was right. He had to stop at the first seven million euro they stole from the Irish.

Why he had to be so greedy?

Sherlock embraced Irene and let her kiss him one last time. She whispered something to his ear and Sherlock wasn't quite sure of what she meant.

"You're a good man. I wish things would have been different between us," She half smiled. "but all these years of marriage were funny."

The consulting accountant caressed her cheek. "The Woman. Always  _The Woman_."

Molly was sobbing so hard Sherlock feared she would die of dehydration. "From now on you don't work for me any more. Take Mycroft's offer. Don't worry about him," Sherlock smiled at her. "He'll treat you better."

"You always treated me well," Molly said between sobs.

Sherlock half smiled. "I wish you nothing but happiness, Miss Hooper. You deserve it."

And then, there he was.

John Watson.

Thief.

A mere thief who had medical training, served in Afghanistan and was the only person in the world Sherlock wished he could have.

"It was a pleasure, John Watson."

John ignored Sherlock's hand. "We can kill 'em," he said between clenched teeth. "Just... I need you to buy us some time -"

"No, John."

"Sherlock -"

"Come on. Are you gonna take the whole day to say good bye?" James asked, sightly exasperated.

Sherlock looked at John for one last time and followed James through the stairs.

* * *

"You know... if I had to choose a proper song for this moment, it'd be 'Stayin' Alive'," James said once they had reached the rooftop. "But then... it's so boring. It's just...  _staying_."

Sherlock looked at his surroundings. There was nothing more than bricks and dust. "You're going to kill me."

"No."

"No?"

James smiled darkly. "You liked making me look like a fool, uh? Well, now it's my turn."

Sherlock frowned. He was waiting for a shot in the head, in the chest maybe.

Not this.

"I don't understand."

"I'm not gonna kill you. I told you I don't like getting my hands dirty," James pointed at the edge of the roof. "You're going to die because you're going to commit suicide."

Sherlock remained silent.

"I'm willing to let them go, Sherlock. As you said, this is between you and me."

"And the trick?"

"They will die if you don't."

"Of course," Sherlock gasped. "I commit suicide. Die in disgrace."

James laughed. "You've gotta admit that's sexier.  _'Genius Consulting Accountant Sherlock Holmes proved to be a fraud'_. I get my money back and you diiiiiie!"

"I can give you all the money back."

"I don't want  _you_  to give me  _my_  money," James said, getting dangerously close to Sherlock. "I want to destroy you and for that, I need the whole world to know you're a fraud. That you're nothing but a little whore who sold his arse to a thief."

Sherlock grabbed the Irish by the collar of his coat and turned him so he would be close to the edge of the roof. "You're insane," he said angrily.

"Three bullets, Sherlock. Irene, Molly and your sex toy will die."

"I don't think so."

Both men turned and Irene pulled the trigger.

And James Moriarty fell to the floor.


	19. What we were

"Irene -"

Sherlock ran to her and folded his long arms around her thin frame. No words needed to be said. Just a touch, a hug. That is what they needed.

A touch.

They needed to be close for what was to come.

"Hush," Irene pressed her index finger to Sherlock's lips. "Go and help John."

"What happened?"

Irene smiled just slightly. "You taught Molly how to shoot."

"Irene..."

Realisation hit him when he spotted blood running down her arm.

"It's nothing, darling."

"Who -"

"Hush," Irene sat on the floor and glanced at Jim's body. There was a pool of blood staining the bricks, dust mixing with blood. What a picture, she thought. "Go and help John, darling."

Sherlock knelt next to her and took a look at the wound. She was shoot somewhere between her shoulder and her left breast. Her blood was staining his long coat which he had given to her when Sebastian tried to abuse her. Underneath his coat she was naked and it reminded him of the first time he saw her.

_"Mister Holmes, nice to meet you," Irene said seductively. She licked her red lips and gave him a smile. "I don't think we met before."_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Certainly not, Miss Adler."_

_"My, look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face."_

_"I beg your pardon?"_

Sherlock looked to where he knew Molly was. She was talking to a woman he had never seen before; Irene Adler's PA.

They were at a party at one of his client's. It turned out his client, an important polo player who had given him more than two million for hiding a high sum of money from the tax man, was very good friends with this Adler woman.

It took Consulting Accountant Sherlock Holmes less than two minutes to deduce they weren't just friends. Miss Adler knew what his client liked.

And apparently what he liked too.

Irene walked away and Molly told him about her plans.

Miss Irene Adler was an important barrister. She was very clever and maybe as clever as Sherlock Holmes was. She had important clients such as member of the royal family, celebrities, people in the music business, artist and even foreign millionaires living in the UK. Irene Adler had never lost a court case. She was in her early thirties and she was still unmarried. She was beautiful, certainly beautiful and had good taste in clothes and people started to wonder why such beautiful, successful woman wasn't still married.

What Irene was offering him was to be each other's beards.

Because, as Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes was homosexual and he was also in his thirties, he also was quite a handsome man, he had good taste in clothes, he always made his clients earn more money than any other accountant and people also wondered why he was unmarried.

They had a lot of things in common: both liked living a good life, travelling, both were clever and both were successful. And both were gay. Both liked to play with their PA's. Sarah was Irene's PA who managed her schedule, who transferred all her phone calls, who made herself sure Irene woke up every day at eight in the morning, had her breakfast as she liked it and wore a new dress every day. Sarah, besides that, also made herself sure Irene orgasmed every night.

Molly was something of the sort to Sherlock. Molly managed his schedule, talked to his clients, transferred his phone calls, talked to Mycroft's PA in order to arrange Christmas dinners, family meetings and business. Molly also had to let his employer play with her every time he felt like it. If Sherlock wanted to kiss her, he would without even asking her. If Sherlock wanted to fuck her, he would without even asking her.

Basically, both Sarah and Molly were everything to their employers.

But there was a difference: Irene loved Sarah. They were more than employer and PA. They were more than simple lovers at night and when no one was looking. They were a couple. Irene and Sarah dreamt of coming out, telling the whole world they were together, getting married, having children and a dog.

Sherlock and Molly were more than employer and PA. They were more than simple lovers at night when no one was looking and only when Sherlock needed her body to please his needs. Molly was the person who got him cocaine every time he needed it. Molly was the one who knew Sherlock hated his brother, preferred men to women, cocks to vaginas. Molly was the one who counted.

_"Took your time," Irene said as soon as Sherlock stepped into the room and closed the door behind his back. "Lock the door."_

_Sherlock did as told and took off his long coat. "Afraid I might leave?"_

_"Not at all."_

_"Afraid people know what we're up to?"_

_Irene was wearing nothing but a long blue dressing gown. Sherlock soon noticed it was a man's dressing gown. "Do you like this, Mister Holmes?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Good. It's yours."_

_Sherlock looked down at her manicured, red polished nails. Her skilled fingers were making their own way unbuttoning his shirt. "Why are you wearing a present you bought for me?"_

_"It's true then... I heard stories about you. Go on, impress a girl like me."_

_"An important barrister looking for a beard because people ask why you're still single," Sherlock breathed when he felt Irene's lips near his nipples. "You're more than a barrister... you're a dominatrix."_

_Irene chuckled. "My."_

_"You're an homosexual."_

_"So are you."_

_"We couldn't -"_

_"We could, Mister Holmes," Irene said and pushed Sherlock until the back of his knees touched the mattress. "Imagine all the money we could get together. All the_ power _we could have together."_

_Sherlock moaned when he felt Irene's lips around his throbbing member. "Miss Adler -"_

_"My God, all the things I'm going to do to you. All the things you could do to me, just imagine."_

They shagged like animals that night. It was true what James Moriarty said; they broke the bed the first night they had sex and Sherlock was certain he didn't like women. He never liked curves and breasts. He had always liked flat chests and narrow hips but this was different. That night he worshipped Irene's body as an heterosexual man would do. He kissed her, touched her, explored her body and fucked her brains out like a man who liked women.

That was the power Irene had over him. She had the capacity to make him desire her.

And Sherlock was certain Irene felt the same.

The following morning they were having breakfast together and sitting next to each of their respective employers were Molly and Sarah. Sarah read the contract and Molly explained Sherlock all the details and all the things concerned and had to do with him. Irene was clever and asked for a dinner out and sex once a week. She asked for presents, holidays and both arranged the amount of money they were going to get out of this marriage of convenience. A nice house and two cars were also included. Pets and children were not, but Irene said they will discuss it later.

Years passed and Sherlock got Irene presents for her birthday, for Christmas and for their wedding anniversaries. They went out to parties and had dinner once a week out in a posh restaurant. Paparazzis took pictures of them and Irene smiled and held Sherlock's hand proudly. They had sex once a week unless one of them was abroad working. Sherlock got Irene lovely dresses and shoes. Irene got Sherlock tight shirts and designer clothes too. For every wedding anniversary Irene organised orgies and Sherlock watched. Guests gave to him bags of cocaine as a present and riding crops and sex toys were given to Irene.

Sherlock knew they were twisted. He and Irene knew it was not normal, let alone healthy, to sleep with lots of people, keep their PA's as their pets, be high all the time and steal money from people.

It was time to end this.

Irene was getting close to her late thirties and she wanted children. They said it was enough they were living a lie for so many years and both agreed it wasn't fair to bring a child to this world of theirs; a world full of lies and contracts.

After the Irish they were getting a divorce. Irene was coming out and she was marrying Sarah and maybe they were adopting or one of them was getting pregnant. Irene said she wanted Sherlock to he the godfather of their baby. Sherlock never said what his plans were but he, very deep inside, wanted to run away with John, go to some place where they could love each other without caring for what people said.

"Irene."

She smiled at him weakly. "Get clean, Sherlock. Go and set Molly free. Give her enough money to start a new life away from your shit."

"I already did. I believe Mycroft will hire her."

"Don't let him be mean to her."

"Of course I won't." Sherlock said taking her hand and lacing their fingers.

Irene chuckled. "Your don't like numbers, Sherlock. Why don't you just quit and start a new business?"

"What do you think I could be good at?"

"Consulting Detective."

"That doesn't exist."

Irene smiled. "You could be the _only_ one in the world."

"I'll need an assistant. Molly -"

"John."

"Hmm?"

"John is good," Irene whispered already closing her eyes. "He's a good man. A doctor and ex-criminal. That's enough experience to start with, don't you think?"

Sherlock smiled and caressed Irene's cheek. "You're the only woman I love."

"Am I?"

"You drove me crazy. And we had great sex."

Irene buried her face into Sherlock's chest and took a deep breath. "You think I'll see Sarah now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock confessed, not being able to assure his wife what was going to be of her afterlife.

"Promise me you'll get clean and you'll start a new life," Irene said, now looking straight into Sherlock's eyes. "Be a _good_ man, Sherlock love."

Sherlock kissed Irene passionately. "I promise."

Irene smiled one last time and closed her eyes.


	20. The real RocknRolla

It turned out that _JA_ and _Sidney Shaw,_ as it was printed in the papers Irene had given Harry and John Watson's gang were no one but Anderson and Sally. They were the two informants who had been giving the police information about their movements, their criminal activity and whereabouts for months. Johnny-boy and Harry were the two people who they had been ratting so far. The next one was going to be the corrupt DI of the Scotland Yard Greg Lestrade and Consulting Accountant and Financial Manager Sherlock Holmes.

The dirty rats. Johnny, Harry and Greg had no trouble making themselves sure no one ever saw Anderson and Sally and their seven percent stronger ever again.

What happened later is a not-so-funny tale.

Sherlock had indeed taught Molly how to shoot and she managed to kill Sebby Moran while John took good care of the other henchman. At the end of the day John only had a sprained arm and a bruised eye.

Mycroft managed to get everything fixed and pretty for the press.

Irene's funeral was private. The only ones present were the widower Sherlock Holmes and his brother, his ex- PA Molly Hooper, John and Harry Watson and Greg Lestrade. They all gave the widower their silent _'I'm sorry for your loss'_ s. John barely glanced at Sherlock who seemed quite concentrated on the coffin.

Sherlock didn't cry, not in front of everyone but a bit in his moments of solitude. He was very fond of Irene and he never lied when in her last moments he said she was the only woman he would ever love. Irene had showed him great things that could be done in bed and she was always smiling at him, playing the good wife when he needed to be cheered up and she was quite a good dancer. Irene always made him feel proud of her: she was clever, posh, elegant. Irene Adler was the perfect wife everyone wanted to have.

And she had been _his_ wife.

Sherlock left red roses on the graves. After all, they were Sarah and Irene's favourites.

And then, just like that, he got into rehab. He promised Irene he would get clean and be a good man.

And that was exactly what he was going to do.

* * *

For three years Sherlock learnt what cocaine does to a man: he suffered, he begged for it and he went through the worst of it.

Johnny-boy and his gang got rid of quite a number of criminals all around Europe. Some of them were nastily killed, some others gave up easily and just a bullet in their heads was enough. Just a small number tried to escape and almost managed to do so until John had a gun in is hand aiming at their heads.

For three years John didn't visit Sherlock. They didn't see each other for all that time. They didn't write, sent letter nor they called each other for Christmas, birthdays, etc.

The only one who visited Sherlock was Molly. She always brought her ex-employer chocolates, the cigarettes he liked, books and petri dishes and lab equipment now that the ex consulting accountant took up a new hobby: chemistry and experiments. Sherlock Holmes liked to read books about mysteries and criminals and since Molly finally found a job in which she could do what she had studied for, what she liked, she managed to get Sherlock toes, fingers, eyeballs and sometimes a hand, a feet, an entire chest and even once a whole body. All human of course.

"You are a graduated pathologist, of course." Sherlock realised after years and years of knowing Molly Hooper.

Molly smiled. "I'm working at Bart's. At the mortuary. It's nice."

"I'm very happy for you, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said, honestly. "And you're seeing someone."

"His name's Tom," she blushed. "He's nice."

Sherlock never asked about John. He never did. He liked to sit, have tea, eat cookies and listen to Molly's stories about her work, her colleagues, Tom and the world outside. The ex-consulting accountant was amazed by all the things he discovered about Molly Hooper, the woman who had been his PA and toy for years and years. Apparently Molly liked cats, wearing flat shoes an comfy clothes but she had always hated high heels and tight dresses. She now wore no make up at all and she looked prettier than before, when she wore lipstick, eye-liner, mascara and blush.

Sherlock liked this Molly. She was funny, knew good jokes and she had a warm heart. The ex-consulting accountant discovered Molly was a good woman and actually, he realised she had always been. He regretted doing all the things he did to her such as making her kiss him, forcing her to have sex with him when he wanted to and so on. He knew she had a crush on him when he employed her. But after years and years together Molly Hooper had fallen in love with him. Sherlock realised Molly had always faked fighting him, when she actually let him have sex with her, use her body; all because she loved him.

Molly deserved best. She deserved all the things she had now: a job as a pathologist, her boyfriend Tom, her cat Toby and her nice little flat in the city.

One day, when Molly brought him flowers, a custard cream cake, a new book and ten toes for him to experiment with, Sherlock decided to ask. A year and a half later, after the Irish incident, after Sarah and Irene's deaths, after John had killed Sally and Anderson for betraying them Sherlock finally asked Molly about John.

"He's fighting Moriarty's men."

"I know that," Sherlock growled. "But... how's he?"

John. He really missed John. Sherlock never felt true love until now that he was locked up in a clinic trying to get clean and John was far, so far away from him that it hurt.

He had felt something like that before, when he married Irene and she was in Australia and he was in New York. He had missed her, and not only her body and the sexual attraction they had for each other but he also missed her company. Irene was a clever woman with whom he could perfectly have a chat and drink tea and even laugh.

With John everything was different because they only had a few moments together. They only had sex once, they only went for dinner once and they always talked about business. Sherlock didn't know what John was like in the mornings, what kind of sport John preferred. He could deduce everything he wanted, but what Sherlock wanted was to know. He wanted t discover all those things by himself and not use his brain just once.

Sherlock wanted a life with John Watson.

Molly smiled. She took one of Sherlock's hand and caressed his knuckles with her thumb. "He's fine. He says he will wait for you."

Sherlock promised Molly he will get clean.

And asked her to come the day of his release.

* * *

_Well, that's what three years inside does to a man. It eats away at his soul. And when it's all gone, it makes a man quite scary. You ever wonder how you got in there? What grass informed on you?_

That morning Sherlock put on his purple shirt of sex, the very same one he was wearing the day he and John had sex, dark trousers, a dark jacket, dark shoes, his long coat and tied his blue scarf around his neck. No underwear at all. What for anyway? He knew John would pull at his clothes as soon as they saw each other.

Three years.

Three fucking years and he was clean.

Three fucking years and John got rid of Moriarty's men.

"Hello John."

John smiled. He smiled in the way he knew Sherlock liked. "Hello, Sherlock. Look at you, huh? Good as _new_."

Sherlock had put on weight thanks to Molly's cakes. Getting clean implied gaining weight, eating more and smoking more. But at least he was clean. His sharp cheekbones were now fuller and pink. His shirts were tight now and Sherlock caught John staring.

"And you," Sherlock breathed. "You look rather pleased."

Behind John were DI Greg Lestrade, Molly, Harry Watson and Mycroft. The last person Sherlock wanted to see was Mycroft, but oh well, he was his brother after all.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I said I only wanted _you_ to come."

"Don't be cheeky. Get in the car," John commanded and winked at him.

Sherlock blushed. "I wanted you to come for me."

"I will," John winked, turned to see Molly, Greg and Mycroft behind him and everyone started to get into their cars, everyone but Greg who seemed to have something in his car, something for Sherlock. "Now, I've got something for you," John whispered and gestured Sherlock to look behind him.

Greg was holding something covered with a dark fabric and as soon as John pulled it away, Sherlock's eyes widened.

He loved it. He had no words to describe how much he loved John's present.

"Now, that must've been expensive."

John chuckled. "As it happens, it did cost a very wealthy Irish his life."

* * *

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."

Greg cleared his throat and looked expectantly for any possible question journalists could ask.

"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"

Ah, here we go. "Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of -"

"But you can't have serial suicides," the journalist said.

"Well, apparently you _can_." Lestrade said and sighed inwardly. Fucking journalists.

Another journalist spoke. "These three people: there's nothing that links them?"

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to _be_ one."

Everybody's phone chimed. Even Lestrade's.

**Wrong!**

Fucking Sherlock Holmes.

And then, another one.

**You know where to find me  
SH**

Bloody hell.

* * *

"Looked at your website," John said dressing after a long session of lazy and great sex. "The Science of Deduction?"

Sherlock couldn't help but smile proudly. "What did you think?"

Soon that smile disappeared when John looked at him. "Sherlock... You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

Bloody hell, yes. "Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your sister's _still_ drinking habits and -"

"How?"

They had been together for months now and John still couldn't understand Sherlock's exceptional and brilliant deductive skills. He could tell when someone lied, he could tell a lot of things by just looking and even after being together for all these months, John was still surprised every time Sherlock said something.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Ah, Mrs Hudson, John's landlady. The lovely old lady who prepared them breakfast, cleaned their flat, made them tea even when she said she was their landlady, not their housekeeper and walked in on them every now and then. She said they should do 'those things' at night and not when she was about to clean their flat or make tea.

The truth is that they couldn't keep their hands off each other.

"Four." Sherlock put on his jacket and pulled the zip of his expensive trousers up. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

The landlady blushed when she realised what her tenants had been up to. "A fourth?"

Ah, there he was. The Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard who retired himself from the criminal activities, like John and Harry and who now was honest.

Well, when you say _honest._

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

Sherlock nodded and glanced at John who was comfortably sitting on his chair with a cup of tea. "Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

Sherlock waited until Lestrade was gone to jump all around the living room like a child in Christmas day. Because, well, it was bloody Christmas day for bloody Sherlock Holmes. Four suicides? God, it was more than Christmas day.

Sherlock Holmes was now a Consulting Detective. He told John about Irene's words and soon after he was released from that clinic where he got clean, he set up his detective business. Some clients visited 221 B Baker Street hoping Sherlock would find out whether their husbands or wives were cheating on them, where their missing cats were, etc.

John liked living with Sherlock. It was nice to have such clever man around, especially when you're in love with him. Even though John feared Sherlock may get bored and leave, Sherlock assured John he would never leave. He liked this new simple life, living in a small flat rather than in a house with seven rooms. He liked taking cabs more than having a car and a driver. Sherlock liked eating John's food rather than the one the maid prepared for him before. And Sherlock loved, absolutely loved the Chinese down the road and didn't miss those posh restaurants he used to go to.

"So, Consulting Detective, huh?" John said once Sherlock returned to get his blue scarf.

"You're a doctor. And an ex-criminal too."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

" _Very_ good," John kissed Sherlock and slid a hand under his trousers. "Stole an Irish fourteen million once."

Sherlock moaned. "Seen a lot of injuries, then... violent deaths."

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

John licked the detective's throat. "Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

"Oh _God_ , yes."

"It could be dangerous." Sherlock warned John playfully.

"Well, that was when I was a _RocknRolla_ ," John almost moaned when he felt Sherlock's impossible long fingers stroking his hard cock.

"Why, what are you now, John?"

"I'm the _real RocknRolla_."

**The end.**


End file.
